To Tame The Fallen
by I'd Rather Drown
Summary: Over a year ago, Sherlock committed suicide, surprising everyone. Now, John is coping- or trying to cope- with his passing. However, Ms. Irene Adler knows a little secret- Sherlock is back, but not without news of a new mastermind. One who just might be smarter than Sherlock himself.
1. Chapter 1

Things aren't always what they appear to be. Sometimes they crouch in the corner, where no one can see. Other times they're hiding behind something so thick you wouldn't be able to use a crane to get through it. Most of the time, it's right under your nose, laughing at your idiocy. We are blind; it's understood. Men, men like Sherlock Holmes, are just like this- using people to get where they need to be. At least that's what we perceive.

John Watson stirred his coffee, visualizing the sugar dissolving into it while absentmindedly reading the morning paper. To him, ever since the "accident", all the headlines seemed the same. Most were about politicians, though none involving Sherlock's brother. Sadly. Some were about "large" cases. Most were never solved (some speculated that the police department had lost it's "finesse" since Sherlock had committed suicide), and there was a new one everyday. John did this everyday; it was customary. So when he was so rudely interrupted by someone spilling coffee all over him, he knew it was going to be a bad day.

"Oh my! I deeply apologize." The woman's voice was light, but had a twitch of sarcasm to it. John stared at her, wide-eyed. Her greenish eyes stunned him, and for he second he though he recognized her. However, she had ducked her head and was walking away. Little did he know she had a small, crooked smile on her face- one that would blow her cover if seen.

John started to clean up the mess with a napkin when a waitress rushed over to help him. "The coffee's on us, sir. Please, do wash up in the restroom." He nodded, doing as he was told. When he returned, he ordered another cup of coffee, to go, took his soaked newspaper, and headed to his flat.

It was new, his flat, filled with all new furniture. He hadn't kept the old flat; it wasn't his. He wasn't sure who was living there now, but he knew he'd never go back there. It held too much memory, and even keeping his clothes reminded him of Sherlock.

_Sherlock_. The name rand out in his head, stinging his side, as well as his heart. He'd held Sherlock in the highest regard, and he felt that something- or someone- had compelled Sherlock to do what he'd done. He'd felt the relief lift off his chest when Sherlock hit the ground, and that was what scared him the most. He loved Sherlock; he was John's best friend, almost like a brother to him. There must've been no way out, because if anyone could get out of death, it was Sherlock. A small part of John's mind told him to believe the lies Sherlock had told him on the phone, but John shook his head, pulling him back to reality. There he stood, in the center of his living room, the door behind him still hanging wide open. He dropped his coffee-stained newspaper on his coffee table, and shut the door quietly, locking it. These days, he took no chances. Even though Moriarty was dead, he had many friends. And those friends _must_ know where John was. He took as much security as he could get. Glancing at the clock, and though it said ten-thirty, he stripped his clothes and climbed face first into his bed.

* * *

Irene Adler had seen the headlines. She'd seen the news. At first, she couldn't believe that he was dead. Then she read that Sherlock had indeed been a fake. Somehow, she didn't understand that. Jim Moriarty had been one of her clients, and he'd admitted a lot to her in their sessions. To the outside world, she didn't seem at all like the type of person who would cry. But she, Irene Adler, had cried more than twice at the expense of Sherlock Holmes. He'd saved her, and tormented her in ways no other man had. Long ago she'd made a pact to herself to never let a man control her emotions, but Sherlock had taken her to a whole new level without her even realizing. She'd fallen for him, and they both knew it. Irene had planned on making a surprise visit to London, risk her life, and see Sherlock, but now she knew that would never happen.

Sitting on her brand new leather sofa, legs crossed very seductively, she shook hands with a petite business man. He was bald, with circular specs, much like Waldo. He wiped his forehead a lot, and blinked too. He would be a good client, however, this wasn't about sex. She was investing, and she needed guidance. Twenty minutes later, she'd shut the door of her apartment and rang her wrists. It was a risky move, investing, but Irene was going for it anyways. As she poured herself a glass of wine, her phone buzzed. She picked it up off the bar, taking a swig of her wine.

_I heard you do special favors. _

She smiled. There was always a new client. Irene never said no, she enjoyed pleasuring others.

_Per whom?_

_A friend. In a high place. _

_I might... If I'm given an address. _

Irene gave her new client a time for that night, and entered the address she was given into her phone. She changed into some "fresh" clothes, donned a long trench coat, and headed that way.

The building she entered was very high, but old style like the buildings back in London. The winding staircase just seemed to go up, never ending. The banister was old oak, polished perfectly. Only those with money lived in this building. Smiling to herself, Irene basked in the pay she'd earn from tonight.

Glancing at her phone again to check the apartment number, she climbed the stairs in her stiletto red heels and stopped in front of the door. She knocked lightly, and met the last person she expected to see behind the door.

"Hello, Ms. Adler."

* * *

**So, I've been wanting to do this for a while. I'm a diehard Sherlock/Irene fan, and I'm a pure romantic. So I've concocted a plot line that will introduce a new villain, as well as more from John and how he'll see Sherlock again. Send in your reviews and lemme know what you think so far!  
**


	2. Chapter 2

Mr. Sherlock Holmes was dead. He had been for a while. Hilariously enough, his brother had supplied him with enough money to sustain him for almost two years. However, though Sherlock had tried to spend it responsibly, dying dark brown hair to blonde was expensive. As well as purchasing a fake ID and recreating an entire new life without any questions. And Scotch was getting more expensive by the day, something he wasn't very happy about. However, since Sherlock Holmes was dead, there was no way he could voice his opinion about it.

With this depletion in funds, he had no choice but to turn elsewhere. He knew everything about her- where she was, how she lived, her income- but she was unaware. He retrieved her number through an old contact of Mycroft and texted her. She agreed to meet him that night, and he prepared by pouring two glasses of scotch and waiting on his couch (his brother had so graciously supplied him with a paid apartment for the moment; all part of the master plan). Glancing at his watch, he knew she would be there any moment. Irene Adler was never late.

Sure enough, there was a knock on the door just a few minutes before expected. Sherlock wiped his hands on his pants, trying to get the sweat off them. Inside, his mind was reeling. He had missed her ever since he'd saved her over a year ago in Pakistan. He'd had to let her go, but it wasn't something he could easily do. Everyday he'd worried that something might've happened to her. But, somehow he knew this moment would come.

"Hello, Ms. Adler." There she was, stunning as always. Her hair was cascading around her shoulders, a huge black trench coat covering her "clothes" (which Sherlock knew to be lingerie since he'd tricked her into believing he was an interested client), and bright red stiletto heels that matched her lips. He watched her eyes widen and her mouth open, just enough that he could see the ends of her pearly white teeth. She was shocked, he could tell. Smiling to himself, he stepped aside. "Won't you come in?"

Irene didn't know what to do. There stood the man that she'd thought to be dead just a few moments ago. She'd tried ever-so-hard to forget about him, to move on, but obviously that wasn't the case. Her heart raced; she could feel her pulse picking up. She felt the same as she did when she was at his house over a year ago. _He'd known you'd wanted him then..._ "Yes, I guess I shall." She straightened up, breezing right past him. She knew this was no longer a booty-call (even though she hated the term, it fit the moment), but that didn't mean she couldn't play her part. "Fancy meeting you here, all the way in America. Must've been while everyone back home was mourning your death."

"Oh, no, I've been quite busy. I was there the day of my..er, funeral." Sherlock itched at his neck awkwardly, and Irene stiffled a giggle. He was just so... adorable. At that moment, at least. "However, I just recently ventured my way into the states. I meant it every time I say it. Mycroft's name literally opens doors." He flashed a card to her from his pocket, quickly redepositing it. Irene smirked.

It was hard for Sherlock not to pounce on her right then. It'd been so long since he'd seen her...

"Well. Quite an interesting story I've been reading in the papers. Sherlock Holmes, a fake?" Irene grabbed one of the glasses of wine on the counter and took a sip. It wasn't too old, but it wasn't bad. She had a thing for oldies. And rich businessmen.

"You know it's not true. I had to convince John."

"How'd you do it, Mr. Holmes?" She fixed her posture on his couch so she was leaning towards him.

"Do what, Ms. Adler?" Ah, so they were playing cat-and-mouse.

"Kill yourself."

"Jumped off a building."

"Boring. Classy... But boring."

"No everyone can get away with being beheaded in Pakistan."

"Mmm. Pakistan." She licked her lips in remembrance. She'd just sent Sherlock a good-bye text when she'd heard the ringtone right next to her. He'd been there, and took out an entire terrorist cell with just a machete. Sadly, she hadn't been able to thank him properly. "I never thanked you for that, did I?"

Sherlock shook his head. Though he had an attraction to Irene, he knew it would never work. They were too alike, too quick. It would crumble beneath them, leaving them both devastated. "No thanks needed, Ms. Adler. Just doing my job."

"I don't think saving me was your responsibility at that moment in time. You saved me because you _wanted_ to." She crawled closer to him, marveling at his now-blonde hair. "But, nevertheless, you didn't do right by making me run. I should've just hid with you." She leaned back again, crossing her legs, revealing at much skin as she could without exposing certain areas. If she was lucky, Sherlock would take advantage of her. Oh, how she wanted him to.

Sherlock felt the same. He was fighting every bone and manly instinct in his body not to go after her. She had become even more beautiful since when he'd last seen her. Sure, her hair was the same color, but she'd put on more weight- filled out. Not that she was a stick. But she'd become even more womanly than before. He could see the muscle marks in her calves and resisted the urge to run his fingers in them. Glancing his eyes back up at Irene's, he saw her smiling crookedly at him. He set his jaw and sat back as well. "I knew I'd never hear the end of it from Mycroft."

She didn't respond. Biting her lip, she stared at him some more. His eyes were dilated, and she was certain his pulse was raised. But however was she going to find out? She decided that she would let Sherlock come to her. She'd wait for the right mome-

"Is there a reason you keep staring at me, Ms. Adler?"

"Have you been smoking again?"

"Of course. Without John around, I'm free to do what I wish."

"Does that include drugs?"

_I wouldn't need drugs if I had you_. "Not yet. I haven't found a good enough dealer. They're all assholes in America. Lacing everything with everything."

She smiled again. It was that crooked smile that got every man falling at her feet. Irene watched as Sherlock's eyes melted. It was only for a brief moment; he recovered himself quickly. She glanced at her watch. "I'm hungry. Why don't we have dinner?"

"You know the answer to that."

"Why not?"

At the same time they responded, "Not hungry." They were smiling widely at each other, and then turned their mouths to straight lines. It was a moment of exposure to their true feelings, one that couldn't be taken away. Irene swallowed. It was now or never.

Sherlock watched her eyes sweep over him. Watched as she subconsciously licked her lips. As she smiled crookedly. She smiled with a glint in her eyes. Eyes that were so dark all he could do was shiver. He wanted, _needed_, to be touched by her. But he held strong, knowing that it would never happen. "Ms. Adler, I think you should stop staring at me."

"Why? Got you all hot and bothered?" She recrossed her legs. "Have you ever been had, Mr. Holmes?"

There is was, that question again. Sherlock swallowed deeply. There was that one time, in college. That one time after a rave with some random junkie in a back alley. It was all too much for him to remember. However, he knew it was risky to lie to her. But it was also risky to tell the truth.

"So Moriarty was right. Maybe the psychopathic douche was right about something or another." Irene stared into Sherlock's eyes, watching as they filled with anger.

"He was never right about me. I was never a fake. And never a..."

"Virgin? Maybe you are; you can't seem to even say it," Irene chuckled, shaking her head. She saw Sherlock tighten his fists, but a deep breath and he'd returned back to normal: Awkward and conceited.

"Yes, Ms. Adler. I've been 'had' more than a few times before." Sherlock swallowed, watching her mouth pop open for a moment.

"Well, then, Mr. Holmes..." She started to crawl forward, but was rudely interrupted by his abrupt standing.

"But I've never been had by the likes of you- and never want to." He pulled his jacket taught.

Irene was stunned. The "likes" of her? "You're suddenly, quite rude, Mr. Holmes."

"Rudeness is my virtue. Now it was nice seeing you, but I think I might have to ask you to leave." _Before I devour you_.

Irene stood as well. "_You_ invited _me_ here, Mr. Holmes. Don't you remember? Or must I pull up the text messages?"

"Oh, I remember distinctly. And now I'm asking you to leave."

Irene shook her head, walking stiffly to the door. Sherlock watched her walk, and noticed how she seemed... sad. It was a devastating sight to see, and he'd realized how much he'd hurt her. Before he could utter an apology, she was turning to face him at the door. "Why do you always to this to me?"

"Do what?" Except he knew. They messed around with each others' hearts for a living. It only seemed practical. He would've assumed it'd be harder for him since he didn't have meaningless sex with rich men and criminals to get by. However, it appeared that wasn't the case. He could clearly see the tears in Irene's eyes, and it was breaking him. But they couldn't do this. Not now.

Why now?

"Oh, stop playing bloody dumb, Mr. Holmes! You're the smartest man on this earth, and you act like a complete idiot sometimes!" Irene was breaking down, but she didn't care. Forget the composure she'd been taught to have around men. Forget her mother's teachings about how to seduce men. Forget everything she'd learned in her career. She just wanted to hear him admit he cared for her.

"I know." It was soft. So soft Irene barely heard it. But when she did, she stopped breathing heavily. It was time she took that step.

"Why?"

"Because it's what we do. Play with each other."

"I can't play anymore."

"We haven't seen each other in over a year!"

"I thought you were dead!"

"I thought you never wanted to see me again! I may've told you to run, but you never asked me to go with you! _You_ left _me_ in Pakistan. Not the other way around."

Irene shook her head. "I did what you asked. I didn't want you to die..."

"Well, it's a bit late for that."

"So what's it matter if we're both dead?"

"Because I won't be with someone who degrades themselves for means of income." He'd said it. And immediately regretted it.

Irene couldn't take it anymore. She looked at Sherlock, who's eyes had turned to dark knives when he'd spoken, and knew how he really felt about her. He despised her. He looked at her and saw someone who sold themselves, not caring about what they looked like to others. She didn't have a soul to him, not that he'd even care. "I guess I should be going now." She turned to open the door.

"Irene..." Sherlock had placed a hand on her elbow, gently pulling her back. "I didn't mean that."

"Yes you did. Otherwise you wouldn't have said it. It's alright, Mr. Holmes. I understand perfectly. I'm sure the wives of the men I work for feel the same way."

"But I'm not them."

"You think like them."

"Because I... Because I care." Sherlock dropped his head, staring at the floor. His black dress shoes stood out against the plush white carpet. It was brand new carpet; recently steam-cleaned. _Americans and their carpet_.

The tears were falling freely from Irene's eyes now, but not like sobs. Just tears. Her heart tore in two when she realized that her life would no longer be the same. Sherlock Holmes had admitted something to her he'd never admitted to anyone. And she felt the same way. Inside, she knew what he was talking about. They really would destroy each other, but that was the beauty of it. Knowing that it would happen made her want him even more. Him, the awkwardly conceited but intelligent ex-drug abuser. Her, the seductive dominatrix with a whole past he didn't know, and probably never would. But she knew that she wanted to try. And staring into Sherlock's eyes, she knew he felt the same way. "You what?"

"I care. About you. A lot." His voice was breaking; he felt it. It was so embarrassing to him, but he was telling her anyways.

"I know." She smiled at him, but not her usual crooked smile. This was something more... genuine.

He huffed, glaring at her. "Of course you did."

"But only because I care about you, too." She reached up and ran her fingers down the side of his cheek. He blinked, not knowing what to do next. He wanted to kiss her, but he knew where it'd lead. And he didn't want to start off like that. So he improvised.

Her forehead was soft against his lips, and he felt her shudder. Irene looked up at him, her eyes begging him to kiss her. He tucked some hair behind her ears and stepped away, grabbing her hands. "Dinner does sound nice. At least for the moment."

"Life is always about living in the moment, Mr. Holmes." Then, within the blink of an eye, they were back to their usual selves. Sherlock shook his head. But inside, he knew he'd found her.

And he loved her with all of his heart.

* * *

**Sorry this is so long. I wanted to get a lot in one chapter, just because I don't know when I'll be posting again. I hope you enjoyed it and, please, remember to review!  
**


	3. Chapter 3

**Okay, I lied. I have so many plot lines running through my head right now it's ridiculous. Let's see where this goes.**

* * *

"You have to let it out, John."

"I can't." John stared blankly at his therapist, the one he hadn't seen in over a year-and-a-half. She rubbed her temples, her dangling earrings swishing against her neck.

"John. Stop denying yourself the possibility. You can't move on unless you say it."

"Maybe I don't want to move on." He arched his eyebrow, waiting for her response.

She smiled. "Well, that's horrible for you. Reality sucks, John. I know. But sometimes you have to face it. Mrs. Hudson is right there with you."

"Sherlock Holmes is... Not dead." John shook his head, closing his eyes. He still couldn't believe Sherlock was gone. He wouldn't believe it.

"You were at his grave."

"The man has escaped death before. Why was this time any different?"

"Because he told you the truth. He was a fake."

"Why are you talking like he's dead?"

"Because he is."

John sighed, tears forming in his eyes. No matter how much he tried, the doubt in his mind crept back in. Maybe he was fighting for his best friend too much. Maybe Sherlock really was a fake. Maybe he was dead, deep in the ground wearing away to nothing. John didn't want to accept it. It was hard, being on your own. With Sherlock, John had independence, but he always knew he had someone to talk to. Even if it meant being called a complete idiot for having feelings. He shook his head. "No. He's not."

"Do you want to see the morgue pictures, John? I firmly believe you don't need to, but maybe it'll help you realize the truth."

"The truth is that your lying to me." He stood, grabbing his coat. "I can't take this anymore."

* * *

Sherlock never cooked. But that night was the one exception. Irene was dining with him, and he wanted to make an impression.

"I take it you don't cook much," Irene noted as she watched Sherlock struggle with the pasta. It was actually cute, but she knew her comment had frustrated him. He tried to smile, but it wasn't working very well. "Here, darling." She rose from her seat at the bar and extended her hands to him, and he reluctantly handed her the pot. She nodded towards the sink, and he followed her. "Pour it towards you, but not too close. Don't want to burn that lovely skin of yours."

Sherlock watched her, letting his eyes wander. She seemed so comfortable in the kitchen; it was natural to her. Irene was moving gracefully, and he hadn't seen a woman like that in the kitchen since his mother before she died. He leaned against the counter, folding his arms. She moved the strainer back to the pot and set it inside.

"Give it about five minutes and it should be ready. Can I trust you to heat the sauce without over-boiling it?" Irene winked at him, and he shrugged.

"It'd probably taste better if you did it, to tell the truth."

"Hint taken, love." She set the sauce to heat and turned to face him. "So, Mr. Holmes, why exactly did you call me?"

He cocked his head at her. To tell the truth, he wasn't sure, but something had been nagging him. "Well, I wanted to see how you were doing. And, I'm running low on..."

"Funds? It's alright, dear, we all do at some point." Irene turned the oven off and made Sherlock a plate of spaghetti. "How much do you need?"

"I was only going to inquire if you knew of any jobs opening up."

She nodded. "I'll invest some time in job-hunting for you."

"Thanks." He nodded as he sat down, taking a bite. It tasted great, probably because she had made it.

They ate together, making small talk about life and recent experiences. Irene was bar-tending at a local night club, but took some nights off for her client business (the owner was also one of her clients: "I know what he likes, so he keeps my schedule flexible."). Sherlock tensed at the comment, but shook it off. He explained how he'd lived off his own life insurance policy by giving it to Mycroft, who supplied him with weekly supplements. Sadly, that fund was depleting, so he'd come here looking for a new way of life.

"Are you ever going to tell John the truth?"

"Eventually, when I have a strong foundation."

Irene nodded. She glanced at her watch, realizing how late it was. "I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes, but I have to bid you farewell. I'll let you know what I find."

Sherlock walked her to the door, and they stared at each other. "It sounds like a deal, Ms. Adler."

Irene leaned up and kissed Sherlock. It was soft, a peck on the lips. "Until next time, Mr. Holmes." As she walked away, she heard the front door shut. Later, once she'd settled into her apartment, her phone buzzed.

_Tonight was quite enjoyable. Inform me immediately of your findings. _

Irene smiled quietly, setting her phone on the nightstand while she readied herself for bed. Before she got in, her phone buzzed again. She smirked. But, sadly, it wasn't who she expected.

_Hello, Ms. Adler. Care to play a game?_


	4. Chapter 4

**Okay, so I'm not British. (Obviously, by the way I spell "color", "favorite", and other words). The only words from British dialect I honestly know seem to be "bloody" and "tele". So if you guys would be gracious enough to extend your knowledge of British "slang" as I like to call it, that would be great. Thanks(:**

* * *

Sherlock was over-the-moon. As he awoke the next morning, he rolled on his side and faced the window. He could hear the faint sound of cars in the distance, and he knew today was going to be a better day. Instinctively, he reached his fingers to his lips. The tingling sensation had been there ever since Irene had left, and he had a funny feeling it wasn't going anywhere.

After he had showered and changed into fresh clothes, he brewed himself a cup of coffee. The local news for D.C. was talking about random current events, none that Sherlock even seemed to care about. The paper was dull as well; journalists weren't learning proper writing techniques these days. Just as he was taking his first sip of coffee, his phone buzzed.

_I have news. Meet me at the one coffee shop downtown. It has a green awning... Cody's I believe. Twenty minutes._

He smiled. _She found something_. He agreed, and grabbed a jacket.

It was cold outside; the wind whipped at Sherlock's head. His hair flew all over the place, and he was sure his ears had small icicles on the edges of them. But, he found it, ten minutes early. It was a quaint shop, much like a locally-owned Starbucks, except the people inhabiting it weren't local college kids trying to take advantage of the Wifi and look "cool." These were people- real people- that had real jobs and enjoyed a cappuccino while reading their favorite book or reminiscing with friends. Sherlock examined the people in the line in front of him, realizing that most of them had government secretary jobs, nothing of too much importance. They made enough to sustain them here, and most of them were single with pets to satisfy their needs of companionship. To Sherlock, their lives were of no importance. He didn't need to humiliate them; he didn't want to risk blowing his cover. So, he just wait his turn in line while trying to wait for Irene without seeming like a nervous idiot.

Irene noticed him as soon as she walked into the door. He was staring at the menu, trying to figure out what he wanted. She smiled to herself, watching him become confused. He seemed to be torn between two choices, but she wasn't sure what. No doubt he'd had a cup of coffee before agreeing to meet her. She walked up beside him, trying to pretend like he was a random person. She even squinted her eyes to look like she couldn't really see the menu.

"I was contemplating buying you a latte. You seem like a hazelnut machiatto kind of woman, as well." He turned to face her, slipping his hand around her waist. "You puzzle me, Ms. Adler."

"I must be doing something right." She stared ahead, recalling the previous nights' texts. She didn't look at Sherlock, but she knew she'd have to tell him anyways. Sherlock deserved her honesty, and she was tired of playing the bad guy.

"Well? What would you like?"

"I can pick up my own tab."

"Oh, no. The pleasure is all mine." Sherlock stepped forward to the barrister. He took another look at Irene, squinted his eyes, sighed, and faced the barrister. "She'll take a dark cherry white mocha, please. Medium. Nonfat milk."

"And you?"

"He'll take a large three-shot cappuccino." Irene smiled softly at Sherlock, who stared at her with wide eyes. He wasn't sure how she'd figured it out, but she was learning all the while.

Sherlock handed the barrister his card, and they sat at a table near a floor-length window with their hot drinks. "What is it you wanted to tell me? What have you found out?"

"That things aren't always what they seem. Mr. Holmes, there I things I can't tell you here because... well, we're probably being watched. I'm afraid my phone's being traced as well. It's a risk even speaking about this to you now, in public. I have this grave feeling photos are being taken of us, however, we must act like we're casually out on a coffee-date." She smiled and giggled, covering her mouth with her hand. Sherlock responded with a small shake of his head, and a smile on his face while he turned to look out the window. There was no one peculiar out on the street or sitting outside the restaurant across the street from them.

"I had thought that's what this was, Ms. Adler." He smirked at her, and she started fiddling with her hair, twisting strands around her fingers.

"Of course, Mr. Holmes. But... Sherlock. I'm serious. There's someone out there... He's like Jim... But not." She spoke through her teeth, forging a huge smile, keeping her voice low. Sherlock let out a hearty chuckle to throw off some of the customers sitting around them.

"How did you come across this... Mastermind?"

"He texted me.. Last night. He wants to play some twisted game, Mr. Holmes." At Sherlock's look of disgust, she shook her head, still smiling. "And, no, not like that. He's purely interested in making a new Sherlock Holmes... The villain."

"Then we'll just have to stop him." Sherlock rose from his seat, pulling hers out for her and leading her out into the street. "Did he- or she- mention to you about their whereabouts?"

"London. He got my number from an old client who's vacationing there with his family. He never mentioned his name, though."

"Well, Ms. Adler, it looks like we'll be finding ourselves back in London after all."

Irene dawned a sudden devilish grin. "We'll give a new meaning to 'dead men walking'._"_

* * *

John woke the morning after his "coffee-incident" and shook his head. He must've been dreaming about it, because it definitely had not been-

"Good morning, Mr. Watson. I hope you don't mind, Mrs. Hudson let me in after I explained to her I was an old friend of yours. How've you been?" There, in a pair of blue jeans and a loose-fitting dress shirt (that quite reminded him of one of Sherlock's) stood none other than Ms. Irene Adler, who was scrambling some eggs while drinking a cup of freshly brewed coffee.

Watson staggered, hiding behind a doorway, clad in nothing but his underwear. "I must be dead."

"Why? Never seen a dead girl, Mr. Watson?" Irene cocked a smile, winking at him. "It's about time I turned up here again. I could never stay away from London for too long; it's my home." She picked up the skillet and walked over to the table, where she placed it in the middle. The table had been set, but for three people. John arched an eyebrow. Was Mrs. Hudson coming for breakfast? "Get some clothes on for Christ's sake. The only one around here allowed to eat in their battle armor is me. Breakfast's in five." John did as he was told, ducking back into his room and pulling on a fresh pair of clothes. A shower would come later, but some fresh cologne wouldn't hurt. _Much better, Watson._

John made his way back out to the dining room, where he sat across from Irene. She was idly reading the morning paper, laughing. "What brings you back home, Ms. Adler?"

"To end Moriarty's game."

"Moriarty's dead, don't you know? Just like.." John stopped. _You were actually about to say it, you fool._

"Sherlock? Oh, yes. Quite. He's so dead he's-" Irene stopped, smiling. "How's the other Mr. Holmes?"

"Mycroft? Why, I wouldn't know. Haven't heard a word form him since the-"

"Suicide? It's quite alright to speak of it, John. We all have to move on from death, anyways."

"Speaking of death, I thought you'd had your head chopped off in Pakistan..."

"Well, the late Sherlock Holmes saved me." Her eyes softened for a moment. "In more ways than one." She stiffed again. "Anyways, Mr. Watson, it's good to know you have at least one friend in this world. However, I could recommend a better list of mixed beverages other than the straight up Scotch you seem to enjoy."

John shrugged. "So even though Moriarty's dead, he's still playing a game?"

Irene shrugged. "Well, I think this person is trying to trick me into believing that Moriarty's still alive. However, all I have are text messages. You wouldn't happen to know of anyone who could trace them, do you?"

"So you came to me instead of one of your old clients?" John was apprehensive, staring at Irene. Her eyes were stone; she was hiding something.

"My old clients want me dead, John."

"What's stopping me from killing you after what you did to Sherlock?"

"What I did?"

"Yes! That bloody buffoon tried his hardest to consume himself with cases, he was so into you. You just had to ruin his heart, didn't you?"

"I didn't ruin his heart, John, he ruined mine." Irene stared down into her plate, swallowing. "But, nevertheless, there's not much we can do now. Tell me, are you always clumsy with your coffee?" She smirked at him.

"So that _was_ you."

"Yes. I had to make sure you still remembered me."

"Oh. Well, let me take that phone for you. I'll get it looked at. I'm sure you'll be staying here, won't you?"

"I'm not letting you take my phone. I might never see it again." Irene pushed away from the table, standing. "I'm going with you."

"I don't think that's a good idea, Ms. Adler."

"I think it's a stupendous one." The chilling voice cut through the air like a knife. There was only one person John ever knew to use "stupendous" sarcastically.

Sherlock.


	5. Chapter 5

John was shocked. There, standing less than fifty feet from him, stood Sherlock Holmes himself. He didn't look dead; on the contrary, he looked very much alive (though the blonde did wash him out a bit). He was still his tall, lanky self, and his cheekbones were still abnormally sharp. He was dressing somewhat more casually; he seemed to be enjoying donning a pair of relaxed jeans and a t-shirt advertising some bar, probably from America. John noted the look in his eyes when they saw each other: angst. It had been over a year, and there he was, standing in the middle of 221B as though he'd never left. Suddenly, John felt the sudden urge to punch him, and he gripped the edge of the table for support. Sherlock allowed himself to give a small twitch of a smile, then his jaw was stone yet again. They stood there, staring at each other, for at least a minute.

"Well, isn't this a cozy reunion?" Irene drummed her recently-manicured fingernails on the table, (she'd sat back down after realizing she didn't want to miss the reunion) causing them both to glare at her. Her input wasn't needed- nor _wanted_- from either of them. John turned back to Sherlock.

"How the bloody hell are you still alive?" He gritted his teeth, trying not to spit at him. Shock overwhelmed him, and he felt his legs shaking.

"Very carefully. How are you not dead yet? This place reeks of alcohol." Sherlock walked by a bookshelf, dragging his finger across it. "And it hasn't been cleaned in days. Have you _not_ spoken to Mrs. Hudson lately? She seems to be forgetting her job."

"Actually, I've been sleeping most of my days." John gripped the table again. Sherlock was speaking as though he'd just been gone on a _very_ long vacation and was just settling back in. It angered him to think Sherlock could just walk back in there as if nothing had ever changed. The papers had never exploited him, John had never received threatening phone calls or harassment by repulsive reporters, and Mrs. Hudson hadn't lost interest in renters because they thought she supported fraud. Their lives had crumbled around them, and it was all at the expense of Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

Or whoever he truly was.

"Obviously. I guess we'll just have to take care of that. If I had half a mind, I'd call Mrs. Hudson up here right now. However, I have news." He seemed to be talking to Irene now, who was gazing at him with a look of disinterest. "Mycroft said he'd check into his vast knowledge of uprising threats. However, I'm not so sure he'll remember it after he wakes up. Poor bloke, hit his head when he fainted."

Irene chuckled, washing her plate off in the sink. "That surprised, huh? You'd think he'd take it better." She nodded over at John. "At least this one's still standing."

"For now," Sherlock added, half-smiling. "At least you don't appear too disheveled. But you do need a shower." He wrinkled his nose.

"Sherlock, darling, I made you a plate. You should eat. Airplane food doesn't nourish the body well. I'm afraid I must leave you two to you lonesome for a moment while I change. I'll never make a good impression if I appear in this getup." Smiling, Irene headed into Sherlock's old room, shutting the door behind her.

Sherlock grabbed his plate and took a couple of bites. It was good, but he wasn't hungry. In fact, he was rather excited. It felt good to be back in London, where no one recognized him because of his changed hair and taste in clothes. He'd spent the past couple of days shopping, changing himself to a better disguise. "How've you been Watson? Besides drunk, at least."

John shrugged, taking care of his plate. _So you want it to be just like normal, eh?_ "Oh, you know, just emotionally damaged. As usual. Yourself?"

"Dead. As usual."

John nodded. "I'm guessing Ms. Adler informed you of the current... situation?"

"Mhm. I'm intrigued that people still remember me."

"She said it was someone who was trying to impersonate Moriarty."

Sherlock actually laughed. "Of course. That was what she was supposed to say. Truthfully, all we know is that someone if trying to bring me back. As a... villain, you might say. It's quite hilarious, actually. Makes for a good story." Sherlock poured himself a cup of coffee.

John sighed. "So was he really texting Ms. Adler?"

Sherlock nodded. "Yes. And quite flirtatiously, might I add." There was a sudden change in his voice, and John eyed him precariously. He may've been drinking more than usual lately, but he knew jealously when he heard it. And the look in Sherlock's eyes wasn't very hard to read, either.

"Well, it _is_ her job."

"Was, Mr. Watson. Was," Irene interjected as she emerged from Sherlock's old room. She was presently inserting a silver hoop earring, and her matching necklace stood out against her pale skin. She donned a pair of navy dress pants, as well as a light blue pullover v-neck sweater. The neckline was questionable, classy but enough exposed to leave you wanting to see more. Her nude-colored patent heels made her tower over both of the men, however, her height was closest to Sherlock's. She had the impression of power, even though the colors she sported were of the passive and calm family. The way her hair was done- a classic sock bun at the top of her head with small tendrils from the sides- gave the impression of regality. Irene was beautiful, and she knew it. "Now I'm just an interested business woman. One who enjoys a mystery." Handing a charm bracelet (one like those "Pandora" bracelets John had seen commercials for) to Sherlock, John watched as he clipped it around her wrist carefully, dragging his thumb softly across her hand before dropping it. "Thanks, love."

"So, when are we leaving again?" John glanced at his watch. "It's past ten-thirty."

"We can leave as soon as-" Sherlock's phone started to ring, and he pulled it out of his back pocket. "I've been waiting for this call. Hello, brother dearest. How's your head?"

John and Irene heard shouting on the other line, and Sherlock held the phone away from his ear. "There's no need to shout, Mycroft. It's not my fault you fainted. At least John didn't faint." More shouting. "Brother, you knew I was still alive." Less shouting. "I know, I should've informed you of my changed hair. And when I was arriving. But you don't understand how great it was to see your face." Reasonable conversing. "Why, thank you. We can be there in an hour or less. No need to babble, brother. See you soon." _Click_. Sherlock smiled at the two waiting patiently. "Mycroft has a friend on the way who says she can help trace your phone. He told us to meet him in an hour. At his house." He grabbed his jacket.

"Oh, please do tell me you're not going dressed like _that_, are you?" Irene's voice was shrill. Sherlock arched an eyebrow.

"Why not? You're only as good as your disguise, my dear." He winked.

Irene walked into Sherlock's old room and returned with a pair of dark wash jeans and a forest green button down. "Because no partner of Irene Adler's will _ever_ present themselves to someone of higher stance dressed like a commoner." As she handed him the clothes, which he reluctantly took, she whispered in his ear, "Besides, a man in dress clothes does make me... _curious_."

John watched, rolling his eyes. A few minutes later, Sherlock emerged from his old room dressed, his hair fingered a bit more professionally. Grabbing his coat and linking arms with Irene, who'd donned a tan trench coat, the three of them headed downstairs and into the city.

It was sunny outside, the air crisp. There was a new feeling in London, almost like the weariness was gone. Instead, a new feeling had emerged. The sun had finally come out from behind the clouds, and it seemed as though people were being friendlier. The sidewalks were more crowded, and cars were driving casually, as though to take in the day like it could be gone in an instant. London had missed Sherlock Holmes, and now he was home. For a brief moment, all was right in the world.

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**This was a bonus chapter, mainly because it's Easter. I know sunny days are rare in England (at least, that's what I've heard), so that's why I included the last little bit. Remember to review!(:  
**


	6. Chapter 6

Mycroft Holmes was very professional. Even when he was conducting what most would call "illegal" political procedures, he was professional. However, his reaction to seeing his "dead" (he'd very well known that Sherlock wasn't dead; he was too conceited and intelligent to jump off a building as a means of death) brother was the exact opposite. Then again, he'd considered the way he'd fainted graceful, and applauded himself for waking as quick as he did. Secretly, Mrcroft had missed his little brother, and seeing him was quite a shock. He hadn't expected blonde, though. It washed him out too much. However, he looked quite well considering his "death." Sherlock wasn't just a dead man walking; he was an entirely new man. Mycroft- with the help of Molly Hooper (a very pleasant medical examiner friend of Sherlock's)- had helped Sherlock "die" just to save his loved ones. He knew it was a huge risk, Sherlock _actually_ jumping off the roof of a hospital and not fracturing his skull, but with some quick tricks, they pulled it off. Mycroft had been unsuspiciously sending Sherlock money from his trust fund for the past year, however, he knew it was depleting. Fast. He knew it'd be a matter of time before Sherlock showed up, however, this was quite unexpected. Then again, Sherlock was known for his surprise visits.

Mycroft sat across from Ms. Jessica Monroe, a delightful young thing he'd met at an international affairs conference a few months ago, drinking a cup of herbal tea. It wasn't his favorite, but the palace was waiting on an incoming shipment of earl grey, so it'd have to do. Currently, they were discussing recent events involving North Korea and America (England and the States were ridiculously close allies, closer than Mycroft liked). Mycroft was trying hard to wait until his expected guest(s) arrived to explain why he'd called her up. She'd been staying in downtown London for over a week now, preparing to make a guest appearance at both Oxford and Cambridge Universities within the next couple of days. Ms. Monroe, however, was smarter than she appeared (she was blonde), and wouldn't stop asking why Mycroft had invited her for tea (though she was drinking coffee). Finally, she'd had enough.

"Mr. Holmes, I'm not so sure if you'd noticed, but I'm engaged. So unless this is your peculiar way of telling me you're interest- in which case, the feeling _isn't_ mutual- I'm sorry to say I have to leave." She took another sip of her coffee and pushed her chair out as if to leave. Mycroft smiled.

"No such thing, Ms. Monroe. You see, I've been trying my hardest to keep you at bay until my guests arrive. However, seeing as it's past the hour I was told to wait, I'm afraid I must explain this situation to you myself."

"You have my attention." Ms. Monroe scooted back in.

Mycroft cleared his throat. "As you know, my brother is the late Sherlock Holmes." Pause. "Well, there is a... third party, if you may, that's claiming he's back. As an 'evil' mastermind."

"I thought he declared to Dr. Watson that he was a fraud?" Ms. Monroe took a sip of her coffee. Mycroft shrugged.

"Sometimes when we're under duress, we say things we don't mean. It could've been a ploy to throw off someone else. However, he _is_ dead. That's the problem. This 'imposter' is threatening to dig my brother's name into the dirt even further. And, once my guests arrive, I'll have evidence."

"How is this imposter getting in touch with you?"

"Through text message via another party's phone."

"Have you _seen_ this evidence?" Ms. Monroe seemed skeptical. Mycroft nodded. He even had a bruise on the crown of his head to prove it. However, he wasn't about to tell her that.

Suddenly, the door to the room flew open, causing a rush of cool air to fill the room. Ms. Monroe shuddered, turning to see three people, all clad in dress clothes, entering. "Sorry we're so late, Mycroft, but the traffic across the bridge was horrific. Oh, hello." A tall, lanky man with dark blonde hair stopped dead in his tracks and stared at Jessica with wide, clear blue eyes. They were so light they were almost gray, and Jessica felt the breath rush out of her. He. Was. Gorgeous. "And you are?"

"Mr. Harrington, this is-"

"Ms. Jessica Monroe. I'm an international affairs officer in the U.N. It's a pleasure to meet you." She stuck out her hand. Sherlock shook it, smiling.

"Pleasure's all mine." He turned to the two people behind him. "This is Ms.-"

"Abigail Moriarty." Jessica stood starstruck. She was beautiful. The stance she held said she was powerful- _too_ powerful- and that she had everyone, even Mycroft, under her finger. Her turquoise eyes shone with fire and ice all at the same time. She looked familiar, but Jessica just couldn't place her. "Purple's definitely your color, Jessica." She nodded towards the purple dress Jessica was sporting.

"Thank you."

"And this is Dr.-"

"John Watson." John shook hands with Jessica, smiling. "Mr. Harrington asked me to come alone since it seems that someone's impersonating the late Mr. Holmes."

"Well, that's what I've been told."

"Ah, Mycroft, you decided to explain without me?" Sherlock glared at his older brother. Mycroft smirked.

"I'd threatened to leave, so he had no choice. I'm sorry if that ruined your plan."

"Oh, not at all." Sherlock had an edge in his voice as he stared at Irene out of the corner of his eye. He wasn't too happy with her- _Moriarty? Really?_- but he had to play his part. They hadn't discussed alias's on the way over; that wasn't for the cabby to hear. "So, Ms. Monroe, do you think you'd be able to help us?"

"How exactly?"

Sherlock handed the phone to Jessica, and she took it reluctantly. "Well, we were hoping you'd be able to influence the American authorities to trace these text messages."

"Why American? We _are_ in London..."

"I was in America when I started receiving these texts. Apparently, this person seems to believe I'm some Adler woman, and wants to recreate Sherlock Holmes. I'm not sure if they expect me to go to the authorities, but I'm not afraid to. I have a lot of things on my plate, and this is not one of them. I honestly don't have time to play games." Irene shook her head, eyes narrowing. Despite the fact that she was upset with Sherlock's behavior towards this "Jessica Monroe", she wanted to get to the bottom of this. And if going through this woman was the only way, then she'd have to deal with it.

Jessica shrugged. "I mean, Mr. Holmes should be able to get it traced without me."

"Ms. Monroe." Irene took a step forward, lowering her voice. "I don't think you understand. I'm not well liked around the world because of my relation with the late Mr. Jim Moriarty, but I do have a _long_ list of people under my finger. Your President included. Well, I know what he likes." She smirked at Sherlock's huff behind her. "And if this doesn't get fixed, you can kiss your job good-bye. The Chancellor's of both Oxford and Cambridge won't _ever_ smile towards you again."

Jessica swallowed. She knew what the Moriarty family was capable of. And this woman didn't look like she was messed with often. "I.. I'll see what I can do."

"Good girl." Irene straightened, stepping back between Sherlock and John. "I trust you'll do me justice and get this all taken care of."

Jessica noted the small half-smirk on her face, and wondered if she really _was_ part of the Moriarty family. She didn't know much about them except their power. She'd never heard of a daughter, niece, or female cousin in the mix, though. And Jessica Monroe dipped her finger in _a lot_ of different cookie jars. She turned to face Mycroft. "Well, I'll take this back to the U.N. office here and see what can be done. I'm glad to know I was your first pick." She turned to the other three. "I'll be in touch." She grabbed her coat and purse, walking out, heels clicking on the tile. After the doors shut and everyone else in the room knew she was out of earshot, they began speaking again.

"It's good to see you're in good health, Dr. Watson." Mycroft shook hands with the man, and John nodded. "And Ms. Adler, I'm surprised with your alias."

Irene chuckled, sitting on one of the sofas behind her, pouring herself a glass of champagne and crossing her legs. "I thought it'd be amusing. You know I do love a good power play." She winked at the three men.

"I didn't think it was that hilarious," Sherlock muttered, rolling his eyes and jamming his hands into his pockets.

"Oh, come now, Sherlock dear, what did you expect me to do? Be 'Mrs. Harrington'? You'd already established yourself as an eligible bachelor towards her. Didn't you see the look in her eyes?"

"Her pulse was quite high," Sherlock admitted, knowing Irene would get upset. However, all she did was chuckle and smirk.

John turned to Mycroft. "Thank you. For helping us."

"He's my brother. I have to make sure he stays dead."

"I'm surprised your job wasn't threatened."

"Oh, it was. Especially after Interpol got a hold of Sherlock's old phone and listened to the phone records. They thought I was a fraud, too. However, a bit of confirmation from an elderly woman who used to take care of us got them off my case."

"I never said my name wasn't Sherlock Holmes. I just said that the things I did were lies." Sherlock shook his head, sitting across from Irene.

Mycroft shrugged. "Well, you know how smart people are these days."

"Obviously." Sherlock stared at Mycroft. "How's you head?"

Mycroft grunted. "Better now that the pain's subsided." He turned to Irene. "It's so interesting to see you, Ms. Adler. How've you been?"

"Terrific, now that the British government's not on my ass."

"That's good to hear." Mycroft took a sip of his tea. "Well, lady and gents, it's been great socializing. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to meet the Prince in less than an hour. My secretary will show you out." He paused at the door, turning back around. "And Sherlock?"

"Hmm?" Sherlock took his eyes from Irene's (who was presently texting rather quickly on her phone).

"Don't die again."

Sherlock smirked as Mycroft shut the door behind him. It was his way of telling him to be careful- he didn't want to lose him again. As much as the two fought, Sherlock knew the toll it took on Mycroft to know that his baby brother was in hiding and at any possibly moment could be gone forever. There was no set time as to when they'd ever see each other again, but Sherlock had made sure Mycroft would be okay. And vice versa.

John jammed his hands into his pockets, looking around. "So... When are we leaving again?"

Sherlock stood, brushing off his pants. "Now sounds good." He outstretched his elbow to Irene, who took one look at him, huffed her annoyance, and walked out the door. "Guess I annoyed her."

"I wonder how. You never annoy anyone, Sherlock." John rolled his eyes as he followed Irene out the door. Sherlock shrugged in response, shutting the door softly behind him.

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**Please review you guys! Constructive criticism is well appreciated.(:  
**


	7. Chapter 7

**So everyone keeps asking about adding some more romantic "Sherene" and I figured I'd do a small hint of that in this chapter. I'm trying to have a plot here, but sadly, I can never seem to get a plot moving.): However, I personally believe that Sherlock and Irene's relationship doesn't exist of mushy gushy romance or strange, twisted sex or even the hot, sweaty kind. I think they're more of a bantering, sarcastic couple that argues about the small things because their minds are constantly in action and they over-think things. However, I tried to keep that while aiming to please all you "mushy-gushy" readers out there. **

**Sorry the note was so long; hopefully you read it. (I usually don't read them. So don't feel bad.)**

* * *

The ride back was silent. They were quiet; not exactly in the mood to speak to each other. Well, Irene and Sherlock weren't. And John was just too afraid of what would happen if he broke the silence. So when he got the opportunity to split from the rising tensions, he did.

It hit the wall right after they heard the front door slam. Irene threw her things down on the sofa, glaring at Sherlock. "Really? 'Ms. Monroe?'"

"What did you expect me to say? Our alias's aren't married, Ms. Adler."

"Obviously." Irene rolled her eyes, removing her earrings and the many bobby pins she was using to hold her hair up. "She was about ready to pounce on you."

"If I recall, a week ago, you were having the same reaction. I can't help women just fawn over me." Sherlock stared at her with a glaring fire in his eyes. Normally, it would seem as though they were flirting, but this was different. "I mean, at least I didn't take the last name of the man who tried to _kill me_!"

"It was an easy ticket to assure she'd take care of it! A power play, Sherlock! Don't you bloody know what that is?" Irene slammed her hand on the arm of the sofa. He was so difficult. "I was claiming to be a part of the _family_. Not his _wife_."

"How do I now know you're lying to me?" He growled, moving closer to her. He stared down at her; she'd taken off her heels. Her eyes were clouds of green, and they were filled with fear. Sherlock wanted so badly to touch her, hold her close and tell her he was sorry. But she was too angry with him. A woman like Irene Adler didn't cuddle. She fought.

"Because I'm _not_ related to the Moriarty family."

"Sherlock turned away, storming into his room. He walked to the window, rubbing the back of his hand on his neck. He heard the door open; he calculated it'd be less than a minute before she walked in.

"Sherlock..."

"Don't, Ms. Adler. This isn't the time. Or place."

"I don't normally apologize-"

"I can deduce that."

_Huff_. "And I'm not going to start now. Sure, maybe what I did was a little catty and childish, but what other name was I going to use? Castro? I mean, do I _look_ Cuban to you? There aren't many names that will open doors. Not everyone has the privilege of being a Holmes." Her voice softened for a moment, and Sherlock wondered if her true identity was even Irene Adler. Maybe there was more to this woman that he'd thought.

"I didn't want to look conspicuous, Irene." He was using her first name. The mood of the conversation had changed drastically. "Our covers would've been blown easier if we posed as a couple."

"But isn't that what we are?" She looked to the side.

Sherlock, for once, was lost for words. Once it was said, there would be no turning back. He wasn't sure he wanted to take that chance.

Irene saw it in his eyes. It was only a flicker, but the doubt was there. "Of course. I see." She stared at her luggage, wondering why she'd even come. _Because you love him_. No. Love was not an option.

"You realize how potentially nuclear we'd be? One wrong word or action, and it'd be over. We can't risk that."

"Don't you think I know that, Sherlock?" Irene glared at him. "Maybe that's why I keep wanting you. I don't understand how you can be so smart and so bloody stupid all at the same time!"

"Because I don't have _feelings_, Ms. Adler." Sherlock turned back to the window. Irene huffed, stripping off her clothes until she was in nothing but her lacy underwear. Sherlock could see her reflection through the glass if he squinted hard enough, but he wasn't a pervert, so he stared at the building across from them. She changed into a pair of yoga pants and a snug t-shirt, pulling her hair into a high top knot. She was shaking, and Sherlock figured it was from the argument they'd just had. Before she left his room, he heard her say:

"If you didn't have feelings, Mr. Holmes, I wouldn't be here.I owe my life to you."

He heard the door shut behind him, and he turned to stare around his room. He hadn't really noticed that nothing had changed, save the amount of dust lying on everything. The surplus of books that hadn't fit in the living room were lined on the bookshelves here, and it gave his room a homier feel. He glanced to the bottom shelf; the old photo albums were frayed on the spines. Even more dust lined them, but only because Sherlock never looked at them. That moment was the first in years he'd bent down, pulled one out, and opened it. Inside were pictures of Mycroft and himself as young boys, their nanny smiling widely with them. At the zoo, the roller rink, the playground, at Christmastime, Halloween, Easter... Things were so good back then. Of course Sherlock's father had always been taking the pictures; his mother was too busy entertaining guests or cooking dinner. Even then he'd noticed her distance, and his father's connection with their young nanny. She always acted more like their mother anyways, however, Sherlock hadn't known-

"You had those cheekbones even as a young boy," Irene noted, leaning over Sherlock's shoulder. He peered at her through the corner of he eye, watching as she pointed at him with his father at a horse stable.

"I thought you were mad at me."

"I forgot something," Irene murmured. Sherlock turned to arch his eyebrow, and she smiled, kissing him softly. He held on for a little bit, savoring the taste of her. However, she pulled away, winking at him. She turned and left the room, leaving the door open behind her.

Sherlock sighed, shaking his head. He closed the photo album and returned it to its proper place. He undid a few buttons of his dress shirt, disposed of his shoes under his bed, and followed her out to the kitchen. Irene Adler continued to surprise him, and he wasn't sure why. Or how.


	8. Chapter 8

Irene watched Sherlock come out of his room. She heard the door shut softly. He had a look in his eyes that said he was over thinking something. Irene smiled to herself; she stared at the television screen in response. She didn't want to give the impression that she was on to him.

Her phone buzzed, and she read the message. _I see you haven't made your move yet._

_I've told you before. I won't be. __  
_

_I find that hard to believe, Ms. Adler. Not when your sister's life is on the line. _

Irene lurched in her chair. Addie? How did he even know about her?_ Touch her and I'__ll kill you.  
_

_The only one who's going to die here will be Mr. Holmes._

_He's already dead. _

_Is he?_

Irene shook her head. She wasn't aware that Sherlock had been watching her over her shoulder, acting like he'd been making himself something to eat. His eyes widened at the messages. _Sister? Irene has a sister? _He stared with shock in his eyes, trying not to believe what he'd seen. He figured there were things he didn't know about her life; she was beyond difficult to read. He wanted to know more about her, sure, but not under pressure like this.

Secretly, Sherlock knew he loved Irene. He wanted her more than anything in the world; she _was_ his world. However, things between them weren't there yet. Besides, their personalities were too sarcastic to even think about the possibility of a legit romantic relationship.

Irene glared at her screen, contemplating how to respond. Surely this was informing the "Sherlock-imposter" about her hesitancy. If she responded too quickly, her sister could die. However, the same outcome could be achieved if she did the opposite. She had a funny feeling this person was a good mix between Moriarty and Sherlock. She just didn't know how much. _He could be. With Sherlock Holmes, the possibilities are endless. Taking careful notes?_

Sherlock snorted, quickly covering his mouth. Irene whipped around, staring at him with a mix of hurt and anger. She couldn't believe he'd been spying on her like that. How much did he read? Was his snort because he thought her response was funny? Irene had so many questions bursting through her head, she felt a headache coming on. She noted the fear in Sherlock's eyes, though, and felt a sense of warmth when he rang his wrists. "I'm sorry, Ms. Adler. I shouldn't have been eavesdropping."

"That's right." Irene stood, shaking. She felt like they were back in his room all over again. He'd been right. They _were _nuclear. All they ever seemed to do was fight. Maybe they _weren't_ supposed to be together. However, Irene knew she wanted to try. It would be a conscious effort, but it might work. "You should've just asked."

He shook his head. "How do I know you would've told me?"

"Why must you always answer me with a question?"

"Why must you think I always ask questions?" He said it like a statement, however, she knew it was an inquiry. Sherlock never answered questions, unless they were stupid.

"Just answer me. That's all I'm asking from you, Sherlock." Irene stepped near him. Sherlock shook his head slightly, looking down at their hands, which she'd intertwined with hers. "Please."

"I don't want to ask you. I want you to tell me on your own terms. When you're ready."

"Well, you obviously figured that I had a sister," she murmured, glancing at her phone. It had yet to buzz again, and she was thankful. Irene didn't want anything to disrupt her time with Sherlock. "But that's not all. Can't you just deduce everything about me?"

He shook his head. "No. That's the problem. I can't deduce anything about you. That's why I ask so many questions."

"Oh." Irene nodded, looking into his sharp eyes. "Let's see. My parents were both born into royalty of some form. My mother, French. My father, British, with some Russian backgrounds. They divorced shortly after I was born, leaving me to be shuffled around throughout my young years. I never understood why my parents split up until I became a teenager. Then, my mother introduced me to the family business."

"Dominatrices."

Irene nodded. "She taught me everything from kissing to how to properly use that riding crop I so cherish. I took over some of the clients who didn't pay as well; she said they would settle for anything. Gradually, I ventured to my own clients. High school acquaintances, teachers, employers, etc. My father soon found out, and threatened to expose my mother in order to have full custody of me. By that time, I had my own client base, even taking on some of my mother's wealthier clients. I had made a name for myself by the age of eighteen. Sadly, I enjoyed the money and power too much for me to stop even if my mother was turned in. My father knew that, so he let it be. I went off to college on my own, continuing my business."

"So why don't you have contact with your mother now?"

"I may've enjoyed the money and power, but I hated her for turning me into the kind of monster I'd become. Even more so when she told me I was a disgrace because I apparently 'took her clients away from her.' She hated me, and so I changed my name and went on with my business." Irene stepped away from Sherlock, walking back into his bedroom. "I haven't talked to her in years. The same with my father. I moved from the house in Ireland to London under the radar. I still keep tabs on my father from time to time."

Sherlock followed her and sat down next to her. "And does your sister know about all this?"

"A little. She's my half-sister, from my father's third marriage. My mother was his second. I was his only daughter until I changed alias's. Her name is Addison. She's a real sweet girl; she'd be great at the family business. However, I can't put her through that. I see what it did to me, and I don't wish that on anyone."

"So how in the world did you venture to Irene Adler?"

"Adler came from Addison. I figured I'd pay her some tribune. And Irene was my grandmother's name. She was a real sweetheart to me. She was the second dominatrix in our family, but she stopped early because she wanted a life and family. My mother only married and had me to keep the legacy going. My father wouldn't agree to have me unless my mother married him."

Sherlock smiled softly. Eventually those women had to know there'd come a day when one of them would rise against the practice. Sadly, this woman had to become a completely different person in order to survive. He looked at Irene and ran his fingers down her arm. Staring into her eyes, he knew that this moment had ceased to exist. One small lapse in their tough-as-nails relationship was enough for awhile. Soon it would come his time. But not right now.

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**There, you mushy romance people. One chapter dedicated to the romantic side of their relationship.  
**

**You're welcome.**


	9. Chapter 9

John entered the house later that night to see Sherlock back to his usual self- immersed into his research, randomly flipping through newspapers, textbooks, and wearing a lab coat and goggle-microscopes. There was a chemistry set near the window instead of it's usual place in the kitchen, and one of the beakers was smoking. John chuckled to himself, feeling a sense of warmth and homeliness. Finally, things were back to normal. "Having fun?"

"Always," Sherlock muttered, scratching his head.

John looked around. It was quiet. Too quiet. "Where's Irene?"

"She went shopping."

"With what?"

"Her credit card. Duh." Sherlock looked at John with his usual look ("Are you seriously thinking that stupidly?") and John shook his head.

"Well, let's hope she doesn't make either of us carry her bags up here."

"Someone will need to carry Mrs. Hudson's bags."

"_Mrs. Hudson knows you're here_?"

"And Irene, too. I figured that I owed it to her."

John sighed. "I'm afraid that something is going to happen to all of us."

"Well, don't be surprised if my imposter shows up."

"Yeah, how's that going?" John nodded towards the mess Sherlock had made.

"It's going _somewhere_, but I'm not so sure to it's actual direction. However, I have a funny feeling I'm not away from Moriarty's network." Sherlock sighed, taking off his goggles. "Tea sounds nice. Put the kettle on, will you?" He ventured over to the window, where he picked up his violin and began to play, despite his now boiling chemistry set. John twinged at the sound, fearing his violin was out of tune. However, it seemed as though it were perfect. John listened intently, enjoying the light melody he played. When it changed to a minor key, John stopped what he was doing and stared. Sherlock was playing the exact composition he'd played soon after he'd been informed of Irene moving to America. It was hollow, filled with many sharps and naturals. John stood, mesmerized, and didn't even notice Irene waltz into the door.

Mrs. Hudson had been a peach, helping Irene pick out clothes that resembled a powerful but gracious woman. Mrs. Hudson herself admitted to being a burlesque dancer back in 1953, when she turned sixteen. Irene was surprised, however, she'd wondered how Mrs. Hudson had been able to keep herself so healthy. Irene had learned that both women seemed to have a lot more in common than she'd thought, and she was grateful that she'd finally found someone to spawn a friendship with. Even if Mrs. Hudson seemed more like a mother to Sherlock than anything.

Irene had heard the music before she'd opened the door. At first she hadn't wanted to intrude, thinking that Sherlock might be creating some elaborate plan. Then she figured that it'd probably sound better live. Hoisting her bags further up her arms, she opened the door and waltzed in. John didn't even look at her, and Sherlock kept playing, though he noticed her from the reflection in the window. Irene noted the smell of chemicals, and turned her nose up. She saw the chemistry set in front of Sherlock and smiled. It was so like him to be doing fifty million things at once. Irene placed her bags in Sherlock's room and returned to the kitchen, where she relieved John of his tea duties. He walked mechanically over to the sofa, where he watched with wide eyes. _It's been a while since he's heard Sherlock play_, she deduced, searching through the fridge for something to cook. However, when she ran across the thawing rat, she screamed, and the music stopped.

Both men turned quickly, Sherlock almost tripping over the table running to Irene. She had backed up, leaning against the counter, pointing at the fridge. John leaned over the door, and started chuckling when he saw the rat. _Irene Adler, scared of a rat? Well, isn't that ironic._

"What's wrong?" Sherlock asked, rubbing her back. His violin and bow were in one hand, and he cursed himself for not dropping them. He followed Irene's finger and rolled his eyes. He dropped his hand from behind her back. "For Christ's sake, Irene. It's only a rat."

"Why the _hell_ do you have a _god damn_ rat in your fridge?!" Irene dropped her hand, glaring at him. "I could've had a heart attack."

"Oh, that's highly unlikely. Shock is a better term to use in the instance, Ms. Adler."

Irene rolled her eyes. "What are you doing with a frozen dead rat in your fridge, Sherlock?"

"Studying rates of decomposition. It seems as though John had rid our fridge of the last bunch, so I have to start over again. I'd spent some time looking for cow eyeballs." He pointed his bow at John. "I'm going to get you back for that."

"Right. Have fun with that." John nodded while opening the day's newspaper. He suddenly had a burst of energy, and he was feeling more like himself. Maybe he'd get to stop his therapy appointments again.

"So what does this have to do with our situation? I thought you were supposed to be researching this 'imposter', not playing around with a musical instrument." Irene knew it'd hit hard when Sherlock's eyes widened with hurt. She swore he almost teared, but he blinked it away. She had to get back at him for the dead rat pun somehow.

"Actually, I've figured out who it is. However, I'm just thinking of how we're going to get to her."

"Her?" John and Irene's voices clashed, creating a dissonance in Sherlock's ears. He cringed. They really needed some musical training. And to use inside voices when in a building.

"Yes, you idiots. Her." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I'm going to talk to Mycroft as soon as he hears back from Ms. Monroe." He watched Irene roll her eyes. "I don't want to blow my cover, dear."

"Obviously."

"Care to share who, Sherlock?"

"Not just yet. I'll need some background information first."

"Not even a hint?"

"Well, someone who would be able to locate Ms. Adler very easily because they're exactly the same."

Irene gasped. "Are you _serious_?"

Sherlock nodded. "If my calculations and research are correct. Which they usually are."

John glanced between them as they spoke. They never mentioned a name, and his eyes widened. "That's not fair. I don't know Ms. Adler's back story."

"Neither do I," Sherlock murmured quietly, jamming his hands into his pockets and looking uncomfortably at Irene. She smiled deeply inside, but didn't show it outside. "I just make deductions. Very good ones."

"Well, it seems you haven't fallen too far off the saddle then, Sherlock. Shall I call Mycroft?"

"No need. He'll be here in an hour," Irene stated, putting down her phone. "I just texted him."

"Good girl." Sherlock nodded, pouring himself a cup of tea. Irene followed him, sitting on his lap in his chair. John rolled his eyes, smirking at Sherlock's annoyance. "Please, Ms. Adler, could you find your own seat?"

"Fine, Sherlock. Just know that you're card has reached it's limit." She pulled a black card out from her bra strap, throwing it at him. Sherlock stared at her with wide eyes. John actually snorted.

"I thought you said she was using her own card?"

"Well, must be she wasn't," Sherlock growled, his voice low. To Irene, it was a turn on, but he wasn't going to know that. "How did you get my card?"

"I went into your wallet when I was grabbing my purse. You really must learn to keep your things with you at all times, Mr. Holmes."

"Mmm." Sherlock nodded, staring her down as she stood in his doorway. He wanted to take her then, but John was there...

_Ding._ Irene smiled at the frustrated look in Sherlock's eyes. It'd be easy to get rid of John, but Mycroft? Not so much.


	10. Chapter 10

**I have three more chapters already written on my iPod (wish you could upload from there), so expect quick updates. This chapter was mainly meant to wrap up the first "mystery" in this story... I know, where does the whole "smarter than Sherlock himself" part fit in? Well, I'm still thinking about that. This was just to kind of introduce everyone. Enjoy!**

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Addison de Carte was the young age of twenty-one, just now branching into the world. Her eyes were crystal blue; they told her life story. They were open, vulnerable. She hadn't faced the evils of the world, but she knew enough to know life wasn't perfect.

It had all started last year, when she'd met Dr. John Watson after being in a terrible car accident where she'd lost her six-year-long boyfriend. She had been in a terrible state of mind. Dr. Watson had explained to her that he was dealing with loss himself, that of a close friend, someone like a brother. She'd learned that it was none other than the infamous Sherlock Holmes himself (she'd heard of him through the papers out in Cambridge). Dr. Watson had sympathized with her, and she'd been able to move on because of him.

However, things changed when she was helping her parents move to a new location in west England. She was moving things from the attic when she noticed a large cardboard box labeled "Morrison Marriage." Addison stopped, staring into the box. She'd never heard of a "Morrison Marriage", so naturally she was intrigued. She sat and went through everything- baby supplies, photo albums- and grabbed a black photo album with gold letters spelling: "Madeline de Carte- Age 15; Summer." Addison was curious, so she opened it. Glancing through the photos, she saw a tall, thing girl who seemed to be very ahead for her age physically, with dark blonde hair and the same clear eyes Addison had. There were pictures of her mainly with Mr. de Carte, and she never smiled in any pictures with the Addison's mother. She searched through the box some more, pulling out articles involving the death of Madeline de Carte, and pictures of an older woman, with dark brown hair in random places all over London. In all of the pictures she was on the phone, dressed in all black, and usually sliding into all sorts of black cars. Addison was intrigued, and she glanced at the back of one of the photos. _Irene Adler, age 26. Coffee shop near Baker Street, London. Sherlock Holmes?_ After inquiring about it to her father, she knew what she had to do.

She needed to find her sister.

Now, less than eight months later, here she was, sitting across from the woman who she'd been shielded from her enter life, her suspected lover and dead man, and the doctor who had sort of started it all, along with the "lover's" brother. The elder Mr. Holmes had been very gracious when he'd picked her up from Jessica's hotel room; he hadn't called her a criminal once. He hadn't even handcuffed her. After all, all she wanted was her sister.

It was tense in the room; you could cut it with a knife. Irene stared down Addison, not the least bit thrilled that it was her _sister_, of all people, texting her. Sherlock had a smile on his face, eyes burning with knowledge. And poor John, he was just as confused as the landlady who'd watched them walk up the stairs.

"Well, Mycroft, it's great to see that you listen to your younger brother. Did Ms. Monroe ever contact you?"

Addison snorted. Everyone turned to her with quizzical expressions. "Jessie is a close friend of mine from when I was studying in America. Political Sciences. She went on with it, I moved back to England to settle down with Mikey. She told me you all were onto me when we had lunch the other day."

"So then why did you pretend to be kidnapped?" Irene gripped the arm of the sofa to keep herself form slapping the girl silly. Addison shrugged.

"I knew you'd fall for it. I've heard playing dirty ran in the family. Or am I wrong?" Addison arched an eyebrow, crossing her legs. Irene rolled her eyes.

_Amateur._ "Well, if you must know, I only play dirty when riding crops are involved. You can just ask Mr. Holmes here." She nodded towards Sherlock, who blushed deeply. "Which, as you can see, your impersonation of him wouldn't have worked, since he's alive."

Addison leaned forward, pushing her breasts closer together. "Tell me, Mr. Holmes, how'd you fall off an eleven-story building and still survive?"

Sherlock laughed at her trying seduction. "Very carefully." He paused, leaning closer to her. "Your sister mentioned you'd be good at the family business. You still have a lot to learn." He leaned back, draping an arm across the back of the sofa. Addison rolled her eyes, sitting back as well.

"I'm sure. The sad part was, Father despised me after I told him what I wanted to do. Said I was a disgrace, just like you."

"Well, that's a complement coming from Daddy Dearest," Irene muttered. "He can never seem to let anyone live their own lives."

"That's Father." Addison sighed. "He had a private investigator on you, Maddie. He knows you're alive."

"Actually, I'm dead. Both of my alias's are dead. And I knew about the P.I. Well, I knew what he liked." She smirked at Sherlock's tensing. "I paid him to take photos of me here. It got Daddy Dearest off my case. He's afraid of me. What prime businessman wouldn't be?"

"What does your father do?" John inquired, leaning forward to look at Irene.

"Oh, he's a real estate agent," Addison chimed, shrugging. Irene laughed.

"Hardly. It's only his cover up." She turned to John. "His clients are his brokers. He buys and sells stolen goods- jewelry, paintings, arms, etc. His real estate agents are his protection. Without them, he has nothing. He was one of my mother's clients. She knew what he liked, she bought jewelry from him, he found her places to conduct her business, he bought pleasure from her. He seemed like the only one of her clients truly interested in her, and the only one who could provide enough protection for a child since she needed to pass on the business before she got too old. So, she chose him. He left his first wife and married my mother." She looked at Addison. "There's a lot you don't know about Daddy. Another reason he leaves me alone: Mummy had incriminating photos of him and what he likes. When he threatened to take us to court, she just simply reminded him of that. Your poor mother would've have a heart attack."

"That's where you learned to take photos of each of your clients from," Sherlock noted, looking at her with a straight face. Irene nodded.

"I told you she taught me everything. I had to make sure I was protected." She turned to Addison. "That still doesn't answer why you couldn't just text me saying you wanted to meet. I know who you are. Ever wonder where my new identity's last name came from?"

Addison opened her mouth. "I didn't know that."

"Well, I'd kept my tabs on you all as well. I knew who you were. I was... jealous of your relationship with Father and your mother; she hated me for looking more like Father than you, and your relationship with Michael. I never liked the path I took, but I wanted to feel accepted by my mother. Sadly, that backfired on me. You're lucky you're still so innocent. There are things in this world no one should know about." The three men in the room nodded their heads, murmuring their agreements. "Addie, don't end up like me. I'm glad to have finally met you, but this is as far as it can go. I live a dangerous life as a dead woman, and I won't be able to keep it up much longer if people notice you going in and out of this apartment." Irene stood, extending a hand out to her younger sister. "Maybe, when things have calmed down entirely, we can see each other again. Feel free to text me, but never pull that Sherlock Holmes shit again. Ever. I was about to have you arrested. Just... Pretend this never happened, okay? Inform Father about my trip to Pakistan; Mycroft will fill you in on the way back to Jessica's. And please, keep your eyes as slits when you tell him. Wide eyes can't lie, dearie. Have a good rest of your life."

Addison was shocked. Just as soon as she'd found her sister, she was gone again. The two exchanged a brief hug, before Irene nodded towards Mycroft. She watched as he Addie out, Irene knowing she'd most likely never see her again. Too many people wanted her dead, and Sherlock as well. There was no way to retire from any of it, and she knew that. It was a dangerous life she lived, and she'd dug herself too deep to even think about retiring. She played a dangerous game; pleasuring men of power. Not everyone could be like her grandmother- pleasuring local men, and able to retire almost peacefully with a World War II vet and raise a family. Irene did blame her mother, to a degree, for this mess. Irene could've stayed with just the low-paying clients, but she got power hungry. And because of that, she'd been denied the privilege of having a relationship with her baby sister. And sadly, she'd most likely caused a tear in the relationship between her father and Addie. She shook her head at the thought of it, wishing she wasn't where she was. Silently, she walked into Sherlock's room and picked up her phone. There was a new message.

_I'll have Mycroft deliver the box filled with the things I found before I leave tonight. I figured they should be with their rightful owner._

Irene smiled. It was a thoughtful gesture. _Thank you. You're a kind girl, Addison. Just remember that. You're going to need it as you grow older._

Less than a minute later, her phone buzzed.

_I will._

Irene smiled. Maybe her life wasn't so bad after all.

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**Okay, that was a long one. Glad I got that over with. Hope you guys liked it! Remember to review!(: **


	11. Chapter 11

John put the last dish on the strainer and let the water out. He turned to Sherlock, who was staring out the window. For once, Sherlock wasn't thinking rapidly. He was just thinking. John knew what he was thinking about, but times like that called for complete solitude. Smiling to himself, he moved into his room, shutting the door softly.

Sherlock stared at the coffee shop across the street from them. Addison had mentioned something about seeing Irene at that coffee shop regularly. The dates on the photos were after Pakistan; Sherlock had carried the box Mycroft left at the foot of the stairs up to the flat and searched through them. Had Irene come back from time to time to carry out her usual business? Without coming to see him? Also, Addison had called her "Maddie", which he figured was short for "Madeline", but he didn't know why Irene hadn't said anything against it. He'd figured out about Addison when he'd walked past the outdoor restaurant and seen her dining with Ms. Monroe. He'd disguised himself as a homeless druggie (one of his personal favorites), and listened in to their conversation. Ms. Monroe had seen right through their disguises (MUST CHANGE THEM), and Addison had admitted maybe she just should've showed up at the flat. He was interrupted when he heard a voice behind him.

"I knew I couldn't put it past you to just leave the box closed."

Sherlock shrugged. "I wanted to make sure there wasn't a bomb inside. I may already be dead, but I don't think I'd actually like to die."

"So I'm guessing you have found out much more about me?" Irene sat down beside him, taking the photo album from his lap. She glanced through the photos, smiling softly. She ran her fingers across them gently, remembering her summer with her father in Portugal. For some reason, Addison had never been with them. In fact, Irene had only found out about Addison the same way Addison had found out about her. She'd learned Addison was being schooled in America, something Irene had dreamed of doing, but her father had refused. That was the start of the long standing feud and hatred between them.

Sherlock stared at Irene. There were tears forming in her eyes, and Sherlock watched her expression go from happiness to anger. Instinctively, he wrapped an arm around her. She laughed.

"I told myself I'd never cry about it again. That when I'd faked the car accident death that I was done with Madeline de Carte. Maybe it was wrong of me to keep tabs on my father. But I stopped after Pakistan." She turned to face him. "I never wanted this. And now I've ruined Addie's life because she wanted to know me. ."

"I thought you said your father was full British." Sherlock looked at her with a quizzical look in his eyes. She smiled.

"Well, he does have French blood running through him. He was vacationing with his Aunt and her family in France when he met my mother. His father was from France, but the royalty came from his British mother." She paused. "All you got out of what I just said was that my last name was French?"

"That's all I focused on." He ran his fingers down her forearm. "And I can't believe how well you handled all of that."

"It's my job to handle things. Plus, I've been keeping tabs on her for a while. I knew how to handle her."

"Well, these photos of you in London after your death in Pakistan prove that." Sherlock looked away. Irene sighed.

"Yes, well, I couldn't stay away from London. Truthfully, I couldn't stay away from you. Each time I was here, I wanted to come visit you. However, I could never bring myself to do it. I had a new life in America, and I couldn't risk losing it because I knew I'd vote for staying with you." Irene sighed again. "I'm sorry Sherlock."

"It's fine, Irene. Or should I call you Madeline?"

Irene chuckled. "Irene suits me better. Madeline is such an innocent name. And I am not innocent." She stood, moving the photo album. "Care for some tea, Mr. Holmes?" She stalked her way over to the kitchen, smiling at him with a gleam in her eyes. Sherlock nodded, smiling back at her.

Innocent she was not.

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**Sorry this is later than I usually post. I've been quite busy lately. It's also a very short chapter, so I'm updating twice.  
**


	12. Chapter 12

**Now, I kind of plagiarized from the American TV show, "Elementary" for this plot line. Sorry, but it fascinates me that you can drain all the blood in a short amount of time out of someone by hanging them upside down and slicing their jugulars. I know, I'm demented. Get over it.**

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Over the next few weeks, Sherlock learned that Irene was, indeed, a fabulous cook. She set a plate of scrambled eggs down in front of him, mixed with green peppers, tomatoes, and onions, and he gobbled it up in less than five minutes. She smiled to herself, handing him the frying pan filled with them. "Like it?"

"Yes!" he exclaimed, filling his mouth with more. "Where did you learn to cook like this?"

"My grandmother. She's pure French. And her husband taught me how to cook American food."

"American food?" Sherlock paused, looking up at Irene. She sound her hands around her tea mug and nodded.

"My grandfather was American. He met my Grandmother during the War. Let's just say that Hitler wasn't too happy about it."

"Your grandmother knew Hitler?"

"He was one of her first high-paying clients when she turned eighteen. Shortly after was when it all ended."

"So that makes your grandmother..."

"Eighty-nine. She was much older when she had my mother."

"Ah." Sherlock nodded, eating more of his food. Irene drummed her fingers on the table. "Yes?"

"I don't know much about you, Mr. Holmes."

"Bullshit." He rolled his eyes, glancing at his phone. _Lestrade: Call me. Quickly._

"All Jim told me was about the drug issue."

"You Googled me," he muttered, fingers typing quickly on his phone. _Who is this?_

_Don't play dumb, Sherlock. Mycroft got a hold of me._

_Well, then. Why exactly am I calling you?_

_Because I asked you to._

_Liar. Tell me why. Or I don't call._

_Call me and you'll find out._

"No, I didn't. I just find it unfair."

"Unfair?" He arched an eyebrow at her. Irene noted how fast his fingers were moving, and rolled her eyes.

"Yes, unfair. You know so much about me, but I know almost nothing about you."

He stood, taking his plate to the sink. "All in due time, Ms. Adler. Now, you can either come with me, or you can stay here. But I have a case to solve."

Irene hopped to her feet. "Do I get to see Lestrade?"

He glared at her. "Only if you keep your hands to yourself."

She smiled coyly. "That could be arranged." When she returned from his room dressed in dark denim jeans, a sheer black button down (her red camisole underneath stood out impeccably), and red suede pumps, Sherlock rolled his eyes. She was so predictable. "What, do I look bad?"

"Just like usual, that's all. I hope your new clothes don't look like you. You're only as good as your best disguise." He grabbed a leather jacket. "But I do like the shoes. Just don't kick Lestrade."

"I'll try," Irene murmured, grabbing her jacket as well. As they walked out, she glanced at him. "What's my alias this time? I don't think the Moriarty one will fly again."

"Well, you could always be yourself." Sherlock hailed a cab and opened the door for her. She gave him a quizzical look as she slid in.

"Doesn't that defeat the purpose?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes as he handed the cabby a piece of paper with a written address on it. As the car started to move, he gave her a pointed stare. "Madeline de Carte died how many years ago? No one will remember that name, dear."

Irene smiled. "I guess I could try it."

They rode in silence, until they entered a shabby-looking part of town. There were people lined up on the streets, sitting on the curbs. Prostitutes strutted down the sidewalks, short skirts revealing almost everything. Irene muttered something insulting, but it was too quiet for Sherlock to hear. He continued to spot familiar faces as they rode. He knew Irene was becoming tense, but he felt calm. This was his part of town, where he used to spend most of his days. They sold the best cocaine here, and he had half a mind to get some. The bars were always filled with willing women, and the drinks were tastier than any of the pubs near Baker Street. The people down here were real; they had real problems, and drug-dealing and body-selling was the way that they coped with them. He admired this area; he respected it. There were some people here that were going to end up in big places, they just had to deal with the slums for the time being. Others would end up in a cell. Or a slab.

Lestrade stood outside the apartment building, tapping his foot. If Mycroft was right (and usually he was), Sherlock was back. And if the number Mycroft had given him to contact Sherlock was right (most likely), and the person who answered was Sherlock (probably), then he would be here any moment. This case was unlike any other; the victim had been drained of all her blood. There were no struggle marks on her body; she hadn't been raped. However, hanging upside-down from a six-foot tripod was interesting enough. This case was bizarre, and only Sherlock Holmes could help. He watched as the cab pulled up, and a policeman went to direct it somewhere else. "Stop, Hendrickson, that's for me!" The policeman backed away quickly, retreating to his original place. As the door opened, Lestrade felt himself smiling. He shook Holmes's hand and hugged him (which wasn't normal for either of them). "It's great to see you back."

"And I see you've kept yourself well. The beer gut is fascinating," Sherlock remarked, nodding towards Lestrade's protruding stomach. He smiled.

When Lestrade looked towards the left of Sherlock, he was expecting John. However, unless John had had a sex change, he was completely appalled to see a tall, slender, beautiful young woman standing next to him. She had dark brown hair, almost black, her eyes crystal blue, just like Sherlock's. For a moment, he thought they were related, despite Sherlock's now-blonde hair. But then, after she introduced herself, he changed his mind. "And you are?"

"Madeline." She paused, shaking his hand. "De Carte. Pleased to meet you."

"Pleasure is mine," he murmured, kissing the top of her hand.

"I'm sure." She turned to Sherlock, dropping her hand. "So, what's this all about?"

"We found a woman-"

"Prostitute?"

"We're not sure. They're running a background check on her right now. But I figured you'd find out." Sherlock nodded as Lestrade went on. "We found her in quite a peculiar state-"

"Let me guess, tied to the bed post?" Irene snickered, nudging Sherlock. He rolled his eyes in response. Lestrade arched an eyebrow.

"No. Hung upside down by a tripod."

Irene giggled. "Ooh. Sounds like fun." Her voice was low and seductive, and Lestrade felt shivers running down his spine. Sherlock, however, was rolling his eyes. Again.

"Well, not when your jugular is slit."

"Drained of blood then?" Sherlock asked as they made their way upstairs into the apartment. Lestrade nodded. "Who found her?"

"Lab partner. Said she hadn't been to class in a couple of days, so when she came to find her, she found the door unlocked and her hanging in the living room." Lestrade made a gesture to the body hanging in the middle of the floor. Sherlock nodded while Irene covered her mouth with her hand. Lestrade patted her back. "You'll get used to it."

"Well if it isn't the freak," a female voice muttered from beside them. All three turned to see an light-skinned African-European woman coming towards them with a camera in her hand.

"Good day to you too, Donovan," Sherlock hissed through gritted teeth.

"Who's that, your sister?"

Irene narrowed her eyes. She seemed like a common woman, wearing loose-fitting trousers, natural hair, and a not-so-flattering white blouse. Her shoes were scuffed; she didn't have many pairs. She was an easy target. "Not quite. Good try, though. No wonder you're a detective."

Donovan rolled her eyes, going back to her work. Irene stood off the the side, taking everything in while the boys did their thing. She noted the neatness of the cut across the neck; the large amount of blood pooled around the victim's head. The girl was skinny, a ginger. Her eyes were wide, revealing them to be hazel. Irene noted the slenderness of the girl; maybe it was just from losing all her blood. However, she seemed to be slender anyways. She dressed very sophisticated for someone who was going to school, almost like a business woman. Irene cocked her head. When the realization dawned on her she almost screamed. Shutting her mouth, she straightened, staring at Sherlock. He was busy arguing with Lestrade, and she knew better than to pester him. But she just couldn't keep her mouth shut any longer. If this was who she thought it was, then this wasn't just a random case. Obviously, the murderer was trained, probably an assassin. Everything about this murder seemed staged, almost as if to send a message. She squatted down, glancing at the position of the tripod in the room. It was in the center, and if Irene was speculating correctly, it'd be perfect. Arching an eyebrow, she did the calculations in her head. Turning, she noticed Donovan talking with another man, who was dressed in what looked like a bio-hazard suit without the headpiece, making glances at Sherlock. She stood and made her way over.

Donovan glared at her. "What? Freak want us to leave?"

"No. Actually, I was wondering if I could borrow a measuring tape." Donovan arched an eyebrow, but instructed the man (who Irene learned was a man who went by "Anderson") to go get it. When he returned, Irene winked at Donovan, murmuring, "I like a girl who listens." As she retreated to a corner, she almost heard the whispers behind her. _Nothing like a conversation starter._

Sherlock watched Irene from the corner of his eye. He wondered how long it would take her to make the connection; he had just wanted her to do it herself. He noticed how she measured the distances very carefully; he knew that she already knew the dimensions, but was just verifying her thoughts. She was good, and he smirked at her serious face. Of course, this situation pertained to her. Naturally she would want to not make any mistakes.

When Irene was finished, she snapped the measuring tape closed, causing everyone to silence, turning to her. She rolled her eyes at them, giving Donovan back the measuring tape. She walked over to Sherlock and smiled. "I know-"

"So do I. I was just talking to Lestrade about it."

Irene stared at him, hurt. He'd known this whole time and hadn't said anything to her? Let her grieve silently, trying to figure it all out while he already knew? He wanted her to look like a fool. That had been his plan all along. She stiffened, hard shell coming back on. "Well, I'll call Kate's family and let them know. I'll just say I'm from the service." She turned to walk into the hallway. A few minutes later, after a grueling phone call that hurt both parties, Irene was interrupted in her solitude by Sherlock.

"We're leaving." His voice was cold, stony. Irene followed him, keeping her head held high. This was twice since they'd been in London that he'd made her feel this way, and she was going to beat him.

Like most of their cab rides, it was silent. John was away at work until late that night; it was only about noonish. Therefore, Sherlock and Irene had all the time in the world to be mad at each other. It was usual for them to bicker; they had been for the time since Irene's sister had left. Sure, they'd gone out on small dates, and lived normal lives, but the only income arriving was that of John's hospital pay. Needless to say things were tense at Baker Street, and while Irene's venting system consisted of tea and shopping with Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock took to more... dangerous methods. For example, he almost blew the entire place up experimenting with a bird brain Molly had shipped to him. It was too stressful for either of them most of the time, and Sherlock was usually gone helping Mycroft. It gave Irene time to cool, but it had only been a month of so. However, if this was what love was, she didn't want to be in it much longer.

Irene's heels clicked angrily as they marched across the floor of the flat. Sherlock was behind her, walking a bit softer. He shut the door quietly, knowing that Irene would need some time to cool down. However, she didn't seem to feel the same.

"Why didn't you just tell me?"

"You needed to find out for yourself."

"You made me look like a fool, you dimwit!" She kicked off her shoes, throwing them under his bed. She stormed back out, bright pink toenails and all. She had also gotten rid of her sheer blouse, pulling her hair out of it's ponytail. Irene stared up at Sherlock, anger in her eyes. Sherlock sighed.

"I'm sorry you feel that way, Ms. Adler. However, this matter can be discussed later. We have a crime to solve."

"More like a death to avenge," Irene growled, spinning away from him. He grabbed her elbow.

"_Never_ say that," he advised, "because it isn't about avenging. It's about finding the _truth_. He _wants_ you to avenge. It's his way of getting you vulnerable. Use your head, Madeline."

Irene stared at him with wide eyes. Why was he suddenly using her real name? "Who is 'he'?"

"Sebastian Moran."

Irene gasped. Moran had been one of her clients; that's how she'd met Moriarty. They were partners, but would never admit it to anyone who couldn't figure it out. Moran was a convicted felon, an ex-soldier with intensive combat training. Together, they were unstoppable.

Until Sherlock Holmes.

She shrugged her way out of his grasp. "Well, it was only a matter of time. Was he the one who was hired to have a hit on John if you hadn't called yourself a fake?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I'm not sure. I can only guess. I Googled him. He seems to be very-"

"Violent? Yes. He murdered a man he squabbled with in a pub because he called him a fag. Which he is, but I never use that term. Very degrading."

Sherlock peered at her. "How do you know him?" He knew the answer before she even said it.

"I know what he likes. Which is probably why he killed Kate. It would figure he would know how to murder like that. Very clean and neat. Professional. I don't know why I never saw it before." She started making circles, acting more like Sherlock as he stood there, dumbfounded. "Does that mean he knows we're back in town? I mean, he probably was watching us when we were at the crime scene. He's smart, but very vulgar. He always preferred whips." She paused. "He has a lust for murder. Almost choked me once. Very large hands." Irene stopped. "I'm babbling, aren't I?"

Sherlock nodded. "It's okay. I do the same thing." He glanced at his watch. "I'm not sure if we should bother John at work. I don't think the hospital likes us that much."

"Well, we did go there yelling at each other," Irene noted, flopping down on the sofa. Sherlock chuckled as he sat opposite her. "Want to go out for tea?"

"No, we need to stay and work on tracking Moran." Sherlock stood, pacing like Irene had moments ago. "We need financial and personal records. Who's he working for now? Where has he been living? When did he find out we were here?"

Irene moved over to Sherlock, standing in front of him. "I can think of better ways to occupy our time... After all, you want to wait until John gets home to inform him, right?" She ran her fingers down the side of his face. Sherlock gulped. It _did_ sound enticing. However, he didn't want to be distracted.

"Maybe later." He began pacing again. Irene sighed.

"Well, then, tell me about your childhood. You can work on tracking later. Take a break."

Sherlock glared at her. "I don't need distractions right now, Irene."

"Maybe you'll come up with a brilliant idea if you just relax for a moment. It's not always about speed, Sherlock."

"That, my dear, is why we have different professions." Sherlock grabbed John's laptop and sat cross-legged on the sofa and began his research. Irene shook her head and walked into Sherlock's room. She grabbed one of the books she'd been reading and ventured back out to find Sherlock delved into his research. Irene shook her head again and sat down in the chair near the window, watching the sun disappear behind the clouds as she began to read.

It was quite normal for the sun to go missing in London. In fact, there were months in which the sun was nonexistent. However, at that moment, no one in the Sherlock Holmes circuit knew just how long the sun was going to be missing. No one knew the amount of trials and death were ahead. None could fathom it; one would think it unthinkable. Sadly, it lives in all our brains, just waiting for the right event to strike. When it goes off, releasing it's chemical all throughout the brain, the vast amount of darkness and danger implemented is unrecognizable. Chart-topping. Frightening. Sebastian Moran, a man who already had the symptoms of a violent psychopath (much unlike his partner, who was an intelligent one), had lost it. His brain was on overdrive, and he wasn't going to stop until he'd reached his one goal (Even thought he felt himself a hypocrite because of it, it didn't matter. He had gone mad, and once a person goes mad, it never ends.).

Vengeance.

* * *

**See. Totally plagiarized "Elementary." Sorry to any who were offended by it. However, that was the episode when Sebastian Moran was introduced, and since he hasn't in Sherlock, I figured it was about damn time. **

**Oh, and on this whole "Irene Adler lesbian" note, I have a small thing about that for later on. However, since the actor who played Moriarty's voice sounded a little off, I figured "He's his right-hand man. Why not make it in more ways than one?" If ya got a problem, lemme know. **


	13. Chapter 13

"Still no luck?" John sat down next to Sherlock and turned on the telly. It had been a week, and still there was no sign of Moran. Irene had picked up a part-time job at the boutique across the street (it was her third day), so both Sherlock and John could keep an eye on her. Though all had been quiet, Sherlock and John recognized this to be foreshadowing to something huge. They weren't sure how huge, but they knew it was huge. Irene had speculations, but she hadn't been there when they were around discussing it. Thankfully, she was there that night, cooking dinner for all three of them. John's new fling named Mary was coming over, so Irene was in high-maintenance mode. She was flying all over the kitchen, spilling tomato sauce all over her blue blouse (thank God it was an old one of Sherlock's) and blue jeans.

Sherlock shook his head. "He's been quiet."

"It's just like him," Irene added, breaking pasta over a pot of boiling water. She sighed. "When he does, it'll be huge."

"We already figured that. I just don't want any surprises from him tonight." John took another swig of his beer. Irene shrugged, chopping an onion. Sherlock continued to type away on his laptop ferociously, eyebrows narrowed. Things were quiet in the flat until someone knocked on the door. John hopped up, smiling.

Irene glared at the door. "Shit. I haven't even had time to change clothes yet!" She turned to Sherlock. "Be a dear while and watch the sauce while I change?"

"I'm horrible at that type of thing, Irene-"

"You-"

"Sherlock, Madeline, meet Mary. Mary, meet Sherlock and Madeline, my flatmates." John motioned to both of them, Irene in the middle of bending towards Sherlock. She straightened and smiled as she took in the sight before her. Mary was tall and slender, with dark blonde hair. she was dressed in a cream colored eyelet dress and a beige cardigan. Her wedges were strappy; they wound around her ankles many times. Her eyes were a sparkling blue, almost green. She had freckles dancing across her nose, but only a few. John had a glitter in his eyes as he smiled, and Irene felt herself getting warm in the stomach. She was happy for him. However, she was just afraid that Mary wasn't ready to be involved in all this.

"It's nice to meet you both." Her voice was light and fluttery, much like the girl she appeared to be. Sherlock kissed her hand, and Irene shook it afterwards.

"I'm sorry I didn't get a chance to change. Time just flew by while I was cooking." Irene smiled.

"It's quite alright. I look the same exact way after baking. Except I'm covered in flour," Mary chuckled, leaning into John.

Irene nodded. "Well, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go get changed quickly. I hope you enjoy dinner." With one last smile, she retreated to Sherlock's room, shutting the door softly.

They turned to Sherlock, who was busy deducing Mary. _Teacher; probably elementary school students. Not very athletic; genetic high-metabolism. Faint scars on wrists- confidence issues? Knee-locks, most likely from being on her feet all day. Faint tan line on ring finger- used to be engaged/married? Engaged, too young to be married. Kind eyes, but vulnerable. Chipped tooth- fight, perhaps? Yes, crooked nose helps case._ His thoughts were rudely interrupted when John cut the silence.

"Stop it, Sherlock. It's rude."

"She's fine, John. No worries. She's not a serial killer or anything." He shrugged, turning back to the sofa, sitting down with his laptop. John sighed, giving Mary an apologetic glance. She smiled warmly, silently telling him it was alright.

"Mr. Holmes, it's a delight to meet you. John speaks highly of you," Mary said, causing Sherlock to arch an eyebrow.

"Really? I figured he'd be bashing my horrific manners."

"Well, it's a social thing. I run into the same thing with my students."

"Elementary, correct?"

"Second grade. Just when they really start learning."

"I think the stages before school are when the child learns most." Sherlock shut the lid to his laptop, standing at Irene emerged from his room, clad in his favorite green satin dress of his. It was dark, contrasting against her pale skin. The waist was tied with a black bow, and there was lace around the v-neck. She had taken her hair out of the messy bun she'd had earlier, and it was now tumbling around her shoulders in loose waves. She had put on a fresh coat of mascara, as well as her signature red lipstick. All three of their mouth's dropped opened as her Louboutins clicked across the floor. She smiled, and put the bowls of spaghetti noodles, sauce, and chicken on the table.

"Yes, listen to Sherlock. He seems to know all about education," Irene joked as she pulled out a bottle of wine from the fridge. Everyone laughed, except Sherlock, who rolled his eyes.

"Like you know much more."

"Actually, I do. You're forgetting how educated I am. So educated, in fact, that it was my minor. My _original_ minor." Sherlock's eyes widened as she set it in the bucket of ice in the center of the table. She then turned to everyone else. "Dinner's ready. Please, come eat. My modified version of chicken parmesan needs to be critiqued."

So they all sat, serving themselves personal portions. As they dug in, Mary turned to Irene. "This is wonderful, Madeline. Do you cook professionally?"

"No. Cooking is just a side-line thing of mine. Nothing special." Irene took a sip of her wine.

"Then what do you do?"

"Well, I have a number of majors and minors. I can never settle down. I'm always a bit jumpy."

Sherlock jumped in his seat suddenly, shaking his head. He'd sworn there was something crawling up his leg-_ Irene._

"Like Sherlock over here?" John chuckled, knowing perfectly well what had gone on. Mary, of course was oblivious.

"Something wrong, Mr. Holmes?"

"No, probably just a Daddy Long Legs or something. Nothing of worry," Sherlock sneered, glaring at Irene. She made a pouting face and rolled her eyes. Mary turned her attention back to Irene.

"What has been your favorite major so far?"

"Well, there was Microbiology. And then there was International Affairs. I think that was my all-time favorite. Criminology was a close second." She winked at Sherlock as Mary focused on scooping more chicken onto her plate. In response, he rolled his eyes.

"Wow. Microbiology? That's interesting."

"Falls under the International Affairs, dear."

"How?"

"Very carefully." Mary arched an eyebrow, stopping her movements. Sherlock kicked Irene under the table lightly. She started smiling. "Microbiology is the up-and-coming international weapons field. It then becomes an international affair. I'll give you a small hint: every college major- no matter how difficult, easy, insane, or boring it is- are all related. Every single one of them."

Mary nodded. "It seemed as much when I was in college." She turned to Sherlock. "How about you, Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I never finished any degrees."

Her mouth dropped open. "Really? Why?"

"Too smart for the classes. I was bored. So I just dropped out." His eyes hooded for a brief moment, and Irene stared at him. Had it been because of the drugs? Or had he pissed off the wrong people? But surely something that simple could've been fixed by Mycroft. Something wasn't right, but she just couldn't figure it out.

Mary laughed. "I should've guessed."

They continued their meal, laughing and making small talk. Soon, it was near eleven at night, and Mary was consistently yawning (she almost fell asleep on John's shoulder twice since they'd moved their get-together to the couch). This bodily function in turn made Irene do the same, as well as John. Only Sherlock sat with a stone set face. Finally, Mary could barely move.

"I should be getting home."

"I'm sure the boys wouldn't mind if you stayed the night," Irene murmured, leaning into Sherlock slightly. He resisted the urge to wrap his arm around her shoulders, and instead placed his hand on her knee gingerly. "I'm sure you and I wear the same size."

"Not at all. I can sleep on the couch, Mary," John slurred, voice barely audible.

Mary smiled. "Thank you all. And you don't have to sleep on the couch, John. You act like you've never slept in the same bed as a woman before."

Sherlock snorted, rising. "There are blankets upstairs in John's closet. I'm sure that he is quite capable of getting some for you. It gets cold in here at night. Old building."

"Of course. Thank you."

From the outside, they looked like a group of three young roommates welcoming a third. It seemed like things were alright to them, that life was good. The smiles on their faces as they all bid each other goodnight made it appear that it was all rainbows and sunshine.

From the window, you couldn't see the butt of the cigarette. You wouldn't know that a tall, broad man was leaning against a light post, one hand in his pocket, finger lightly placed on the trigger. His eyes were cold, menacing. It was time he got his payback; he'd lay low for too long. It was time to put his plan in action. He threw his cigarette, still lit, to the pavement. Squashing it in one stride, he walked away, breath puffing in the cold night air.

* * *

**Sorry it's taken me so late guys, I've been really busy. Hope you guys enjoyed!  
**


	14. Chapter 14

Mary and John left the next morning, planning an all-day outing that no longer require the company of Sherlock and Irene. They were quite thrilled, but Sherlock felt a pang of hurt in his stomach. John had always included him in everything, and though he'd usually despised John's flings, Mary was different. She seemed to be a good fit for John; not dumb at all, just a different thinker. She wasn't witty like Irene, but when compared to John's traits, she matched him entirely. They would be good for each other, and Sherlock finally had a realization that maybe john had finally met his match.

Irene noticed the look in Sherlock's eyes but said nothing. It wasn't her business what Sherlock was thinking. It was more or less her job to make sure that he stopped thinking about it. "Well, since we've been excluded from breakfast, what would you like?"

"Oh, just a muffin." He shrugged, walking over to the sofa. He picked up the newspaper, but jumped suddenly. As Irene turned to see what all the scraping of furniture-on-wood was, she heard the shatter of glass.

As everything went black, she heard Sherlock faintly:

"Shooter!"

* * *

John glanced at his watch. It had been at least a half-an-hour since they had ordered their food. Where was the damn waitress?

"Stop it, John. She'll be out any minute. They're busy." Mary continued to scroll through her phone, presumably checking Facebook. John sighed in response, causing him to receive a glare from the woman across from him. He chuckled to himself as he watched their waitress walk over with their food.

"Here you go. Sorry about the wait; another table had some issues with their food. Oh, and there's some old guy here to see you. Says you know him." She nodded towards the entrance, where John saw Mycroft standing, dressed in none other than his signature suit and tie. Mary arched an eyebrow, but John nodded. Before the waitress even turned around, Mycroft stood behind her, waiting. She jumped, but walked away hurriedly.

"Good morning, Dr. Watson," Myrcoft murmured.

"Morning, Mycroft." John turned to Mary. "This is Mycroft, Sherlock's brother. He works for the government."

"Pleasure," Mycroft nodded, still looking at John. "An emergency has occurred. You're needed at St. Bart's."

"Why?"

"I'll explain on the way there. Mary, I've arranged a car to take you home. Don't worry, everything will be fine. I've also issued a surveillance team for your flat. Just to be safe. It was a pleasure meeting you." Mycroft turned, not even bothering to make sure John was following him.

John kissed Mary on the cheek, grabbed his food and a take-out box from the bar of the breakfast cafe, and rushed out to Mycroft's car. There, he slid in and shut the door just as the car started to move. "What's the emergency?"

"Sherlock and Irene have been attacked at Baker Street."

John stopped eating. "What?"

"My thoughts exactly. However, with this Moran man on the loose, part of it was expected. I knew it was risky to let him stay with you. Just because you die your hair doesn't mean that you have become a completely different person." Mycroft shook his head.

"But are they okay?"

Mycroft fell silent.

"Mycroft?"

"Sherlock is fine."

"Irene?"

"Hit in the shoulder. Left. A few more inches and it would have hit her heart."

It was John's turn to fall silent. In fact, less than twenty-four hours ago, he and Sherlock had been talking about Moran. He smirked to himself. Leave it to irony. "Well, it was bound to happen sometime."

"I guess your hideout plan didn't work so well."

"Guess not. Who are they under at the hospital?"

"That's not the problem. Moran's gone. Untraceable. Even the bullet found in Irene's shoulder isn't traceable."

"It's Moran, Mycroft. He's a professional."

"I'm well aware of that fact, Dr. Watson."

The car stopped, and both men moved to the inside of the hospital. None of the nurses made a move to speak to either of them, almost as though they didn't exist. When they reached the visitor's desk, a short, blunt woman arched an eyebrow at them.

"Names, patient name, and relations?" She arched her fingers over her keyboard, ready to type. Mycroft produced a card and slid it to her. She nodded, handing them wristbands. "They're on the hall to your right; last door on your left. Just scan these at the different locks. Have a good rest of your day."

They nodded, turning. As they walked, an awkward silence fell between them. None really had anything to say; they just hoped Irene would be alright. John scanned his wrist band on the lock, and the door clicked, opening electronically. When he saw the scene before him, he shook his head.

Irene was lying down on the hospital bed, monitors hooked up to different veins on her body. There was a huge patch of bandage on the left side of her chest, starting from her collarbone and covering her left breast. Sherlock sat next to her, hands in his lap, staring out the window towards the sky. He didn't even look to be breathing.

"About time you two arrived."

"How could you be this obvious, Sherlock? You had to think someone would find you eventually." Mycroft started in immediately, causing John to roll his eyes. He walked over to Irene and placed a hand on her right one, patting it softly.

"You're going to be fine, Irene," he whispered into her ear. He swore he heard her chuckle, but he shook his head as he leaned back up. While he watched Sherlock and Mycroft continue to bicker over safety, he felt himself needing a chair. Since Sherlock had stood and was gesturing animatedly, he slid over and took his spot. He mocked Sherlock's previous stance, wondering what was so much more interesting to Sherlock about the sky than Irene in the bed. Then, he saw it.

The glass was so shiny you could see your reflection. Sherlock had been staring at himself because he knew it was his fault that Irene had gotten shot. It was supposed to be _him_ to be in the hospital bed, and he couldn't bear to look at what he'd done to Irene. It was a pride thing. A sentiment thing. And Sherlock Holmes didn't do sentiment.

"I'd like my spot back, John."

"Go look at yourself in the bathroom. There's a mirror. It'd be easier to break by punching, you know."

"You know me, I like a challenge," Sherlock hissed, tapping his fingers on the back of the rigid chair. John sighed.

"Just relax, Sherlock. She's alive, and in stable condition. She'll be awake soon."

"That's not the part I'm worried about."

"They're bulletproof windows. Moran won't be able to get through them."

"Bulletproof windows. Remind me to inform Mrs. Hudson about installing some in the flat."

"Sherlock." Mycroft's voice cut through the air, causing John to shudder. "The doctor said that Irene should be waking up in a matter of minutes. I'll be in the cafeteria."

"Have fun with that," Sherlock muttered, waving him away. There was a soft click of the door as Mycroft shut it, leaving John alone with the somewhat-unstable Sherlock.

"Well, what's on the agenda after we get Irene home? Surely you'll want to spend time with her and help her recover." John pulled the other chair from in the corner to the foot of Irene's bed, facing Sherlock.

"No."

"What?" John arched an eyebrow.

Sherlock turned his head from the window, gazing at Irene for a moment. When he turned to look at John, his eyes were on fire. "No."

"Then what are you going to do?"

"Kill Sebastian Moran."


	15. Chapter 15

Irene had never taken much thought to what it would feel like to be shot. Throughout her days as a dominatrix, she'd always inflicted pain upon others, never asking them to hurt her. But in those moments before the bullet was extracted from her body, she knew what physical pain really was. It wasn't anything like she'd ever imagined; the bullet must've been a decent size. Or maybe the fact that Sherlock wasn't right there holding her hand was the real pain. _Oh, you're an idiot. Stop being such a mush and get over yourself. You're lying on a damn operating table for Christ's sake. Get some dignity_. The small voice in the back of her head was loud now, and she wasn't going to ignore it. She smiled inwardly, letting the anesthetics run through her veins. She didn't even feel herself float to sleep.

When Irene finally came to, she couldn't remember anything that had happened after hearing the window shatter. The one thing that she knew she'd always remember was waking up to see John's face and not Sherlock's. Of course, this made her fear for the worst. John had done his best to calm her down- "We don't want your machines going off and causing a scene with the nurses"- but she wouldn't rest until she saw Sherlock. Finally, John texted him, and the response was given in less than a minute. Irene's breathing went back to normal for the moment, giving John some time to talk to her.

"He's not going to stay with you at Baker Street while you recover."

"Why not?" Her voice was still groggy with sleep.

John stared at her, all disheveled. This wasn't the Irene he'd come to know. The last time he'd seen her like that was over a year ago, after she'd faked her death the first time. A day later she'd shown up in their flat in Sherlock's bed. Now, with no makeup, pieces of hair flying out of her up-do, and clad in a hospital gown, John realized that Irene was just a normal person. And he could finally see what Sherlock saw in her: Strength. "Revenge has become one of his top priorities."

"Obviously," Irene muttered. He would never choose her over anything else.

"He loves you, you know."

"Sherlock Holmes doesn't love."

"No. But miracles never cease." John glanced out the window.

Irene sighed, shaking her head. "Maybe I should move back to America."

John chuckled. "No. Sherlock won't be long. Moran will try again. And soon. Anger drives a person. Sherlock's behavior is proof of that. Moran's hurt the one thing he cares about most- you."

"Well, Dr. Watson, I'm afraid Mr. Moran isn't one to be messed with."

"Neither is Mr. Holmes. I'd advise you take it easy. Recover for a few days in the hospital and I'm sure it will be all over by then."

Irene's mouth dropped open, gaping. "I'm _not_ about to sit here and let Sherlock kill someone without me witnessing it!"

"Ms. Adler. Just relax. You're not exactly in shape for bad-guy hunting right now." John stood, patting her knee. Irene nodded her agreement, and he grabbed his coat. "I'll come back and visit you in a short while. Rest up."

"Where are you going?"

"To find Sherlock. He's going to need all the help he can get." John smiled softly, and walked out of the room, shutting the door behind him. Irene closed her eyes, hearing the door click shut. Sighing, she willed herself back to sleep.

* * *

The view from the roof of St. Bart's was extraordinary. You could see over most of downtown London; it was beautiful at night. However, it was just as beautiful during the day. There were cars moving everywhere, people walking along the streets and into buildings, and birds flying from rooftop to rooftop. It was somehow peaceful up there, with all the commotion.

But Sherlock had a different way of looking at it. He was familiar of how it felt on the way down from there. He knew of the gut-wrenching feeling of giving up everything just to save the people you loved. He was never very fond of sentiment, but somehow inside he had known this was the way to do it. He'd witnessed a suicide that day, one that would haunt him forever. Sherlock had seen the humor in Moriarty's eyes as he'd pulled the trigger. But he'd also seen one other thing: fear. Moriarty had been afraid that Sherlock had devised another plan to make sure that his loved ones weren't killed. In reality, he had, but not the way Moriarty had thought. Sherlock had had to take rigorous precautions to ensure safety of Watson, Mrs. Hudson, and his brother. The one thing Sherlock knew was that he'd never meet another human being quite like Moriarty- someone just like himself, but evil. Even Moran wasn't a match for Sherlock; he was just an assassin. He wasn't intellectually profound, nor had he done anything quite as remarkable as Moriarty. It bothered Sherlock that he'd let the man who was so below him hurt one of the people he loved most. He knew it was wrong to make Moran's demise his priority, but something had to be done about this. Irene would hate him, but she'd be fine once Moran was gone. Then all of everyone's problems would be gone.

"How's the view going down?" John's voice seemed to come from a far distance, and Sherlock didn't even bother to turn and face him.

"Quite interesting. If you focus on a particular window, it goes by in flow motion."

"Wonderful." John paused. "Sherlock, you need help."

"No I don't. You're the one who needs help."

"I don't mean mentally. I mean help finding Moran."

"I can do this on my own."

"I know. But when have I ever let you do anything alone?"

Sherlock turned this time, arching an eyebrow at him. "Besides my suicide?"

"Exactly."

There was a silence between. The wind blew slightly, causing both of their jacket collars to pop up. Sherlock's hair rustled, blinding him for a moment. "Is Irene awake?"

"What do you think?"

"How did you know to come up here?"

"You and this rooftop have history." John nodded his head towards the small blood-stain left from Moriarty's accident. The police and the hospital just figured the rain would clean it away, and since no one went on the roof (except for some of the staff for smoking breaks). Both men stared at it, memories flooding their minds.

"Mhm." Sherlock was silent for another few moments. "I know how to kill Moran."

"Oh, really? By getting yourself kidnapped? Smart move, Sherlock. Because _that's_ never been done before."

"I know. That's why I'm doing something totally different. I'm hiring my brother."

"Irene will be pleased to hear that. But are you totally satisfied with it?"

"For the time being. I'm going to schedule a meeting with him about a few more things just to ensure complete safety concerning Irene."

"Which is?"

"That is something you'll have to wait to find out about. I don't want to tell you about something and then it not happen. Mycroft can sometimes be an asshole."

"Irene is dear to him. She holds information that no one else has. Therefore, he just might protect her."

"That's what I'm counting on." Sherlock sighed. "Now, I must go call my brother. I'll meet you back at Baker Street tonight?"

"Of course. The police are there cleaning up right now. They have been all day. I made sure to force Lestrade to give them explicit instructions."

Sherlock nodded, stepping towards the door. "Stay safe, mate."

"You, too." Both men when down the stairs together, silent. When they reached the doors of the hospital, they nodded to each other, going their separate ways.


End file.
